


Gardenia Hall

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Fade to Black, Historical Romance, Ignis: 17 | Gladiolus: 18, M/M, Tutor!Ignis, Victorian-Inspired Setting, Wartime Romance, period drama, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: When a case of mistaken identity results in Ignis taking on the role of tutor to young Iris Amicitia, things get off to a rocky — if amusing — start. After he makes the acquaintance of the hotheaded son of the lord of the manor, however, it becomes obvious that this posting may be more trouble than he had first bargained for.To Ignis, Gladiolus is arrogant and ill-tempered, more interested in chasing skirts than in abiding by etiquette. To Gladiolus, Ignis is a prissy, insufferable city-slicker with a chip on his shoulder.With time, they'll both come to learn that there is so much more to each other than meets the eye.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't mind me, just casually adding to my list of WIPs. I just couldn't get this idea out of my head...

 

 

The carriage rocked uncomfortably, as it had all day. It had been bad enough on the cobblestones of Insomnia — now, on the rutted tracks of the countryside, it seemed to vibrate so badly that one of the wheels was likely to fall off at any moment.

The carriage went over a particularly violent bump, and Ignis Scientia clutched a gloved hand delicately to his mouth. It wouldn’t do to turn up to his new posting covered in his own ejecta.

The wave of nausea passed, mercifully, and he dared to part the voiles on the window beside him so that he could peek outside. He was pleased to see a reprieve from the dire, barren lands bordering Insomnia: now there were lush green fields and forests all around, mountains piercing the horizon in the distance. He couldn’t wait for that first breath of cool, crisp country air, away from the smog-ridden miasma that clung to the streets of the capital.

The carriage jostled again, sending him tumbling headfirst into the glass. A frantic check of his face told him that nothing had been damaged — particularly his spectacles, for which he was relieved.

The sooner this hellish ride was over, the better.

* * *

It was almost evening by the time the carriage drew to a halt at long last. Once the door was opened for him, Ignis hobbled down the steps on unsteady feet and sucked in lungful of fresh air. It helped him, somewhat; the nausea began to subside, the bitter taste fading from the back of his throat.

Other than his driver, the only person awaiting him was a young woman in an apron, her dark hair poorly pinned back such that it hung loose about her face. Surely she couldn’t be the only one here to receive him — a maid of some sort. The housekeeper’s correspondence had implied that this family was of considerable means.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ the woman said, peering up at him expectantly.

Who was she waiting for, if she wasn’t here to receive _him?_ Ignis gave an exasperated sigh and shot his driver a long-suffering glance; the man merely shrugged his shoulders and moved past him to retrieve his luggage.

‘I’m expected,’ Ignis said briskly.

The girl gave him a bemused look, raising her eyebrows almost comically, and she looked as if she might have questioned him on it had her attention not been drawn elsewhere.

Ignis followed the direction of her gaze to a young man, tall and bronzed, with long, dark hair tied at the base of his head. His skin had a sheen of sweat where it was visible above his collar and below the rolled sleeves of his shirt. Both clothes and skin were soiled, as though he’d taken a tumble in a flower bed.

‘You can leave those there,’ Ignis said to the driver. He turned his attention to the young man, ushering him over. ‘Excuse me. _Excuse me._ You can bring these in for me now.’

The man stopped feet away, watching him in cold silence. Ignis had the distinct feeling of being studied by those eyes, the colour of amber, as they ran up and down his form.

‘You got two arms, don’t you?’ the man said. ‘Why not put ‘em to good use?’

He didn’t wait for any sort of rebuke; side-stepping around Ignis, he headed straight through the front door of the manor without another word.

* * *

‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake.’

The lord of the manor did not look like the sort of man who made mistakes — yet here they both were, thoroughly at a loss.

‘Sir,’ Ignis said, fighting to keep his voice from wavering. He could feel heat creeping up the collar of his already-crumpled shirt. ‘I assure you, I have all the correspondence with your housekeeper in my possession. If you’ll allow me to—’

Clarus Amicitia leaned back in his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose. The sigh he gave was so long and weary that Ignis genuinely feared the man might simply turn him out of the manor and send him all the way home.

‘Ms. Elshett?’ Mr. Amicitia said after a moment. ‘She’ll confirm this?’

Ignis nodded.

With another weary sigh, Mr. Amicitia stood from his seat, angled himself toward the door, and opened his mouth to give a shout.

‘Crowe!’ he bellowed, startling Ignis in the process.

It wasn’t long before the door tentatively opened behind Ignis and a young woman’s voice rang out from behind it.

‘Yes, sir?’ the voice said timidly. Ignis recognised it as the girl from earlier.

‘Crowe,’ Mr. Amicitia said, returning to his seat. ‘Where is Ms. Elshett?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’

Ignis flinched, watching the man’s jaw clench with annoyance.

‘Perhaps you might _find her_ for me?’ the man said, his voice clipped.

‘Of course, sir.’

Ignis studied the room while he waited, taking great pains not to accidentally meet Mr. Amicitia’s eye along the way. There was a banner behind his desk — an eagle and a sword — and Ignis found himself wondering if this family were of any relation to the Amicitias that served as Shields to the royal line.

Before too long, the door opened once more and Ignis felt the air stir as a woman stepped up beside him.

‘Sir,’ the woman said.

‘Ms. Elshett,’ Mr. Amicitia said, clasping his fist with his other hand. ‘This gentleman tells me he’s Iris’s new tutor. I was under the impression you had hired a _governess.’_

Ignis could barely resist the urge to turn to look at the housekeeper; from what little he could see of her in the periphery of his vision, she seemed remarkably composed in the face of the mixup.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re expecting Miss Scientia today.’

 _‘Master_ Scientia,’ Ignis interjected.

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ the woman replied curtly. ‘We’re expecting one Ignia Scientia.’

Cold dread filled Ignis’s veins, turning his limbs to ice where he sat. He understood, now — he wasn’t in the wrong place, nor had he somehow mistaken his position. The problem was that they were expecting a young _woman,_ and they had received _him._

A silence fell over the room, during which Ignis could only imagine the state of his future. He would be sent home, surely; a household seeking a governess had no room for a tutor. His uncle would certainly have a thing or two to say, particularly when he showed up empty-handed and out the handful of silver crowns for the privilege of a wasted journey.

Ignis waited, holding his breath, and then the unexpected happened.

The lord of the manor _laughed._

If it was a surprising occurrence, Ms. Elshett made no show of it, merely standing with her hands clasped in front of her while she waited.

‘Master Scientia,’ the lord of the manor said. ‘Through circumstances that I don’t entirely understand, we find ourselves with a young man to carry out a governess’s duties, instead of a young woman. Tell me — you’re fully familiar with the three Rs, yes? Languages, history, geography as well?’

Ignis nodded.

‘And you are still comfortable with schooling my daughter in the etiquette that citizens of the capital are so widely regarded for, yes?’

Once more, Ignis nodded.

Mr. Amicitia rose suddenly, extending his hands palms-upward to either side of him. Ignis was pleased to find, as he looked up at the man’s face, that his eyes were warm with mirth.

‘Then I believe,’ the lord of the manor said, ‘that we have our governess.’

* * *

They supplied him with a modest enough room, although it more than suited Ignis’s needs. The wallpaper was a recurring motif of the gardenia for which the manor was named, and the dormer window had a perfect view of the gardens where the flowers bloomed in abundance, carefully cultivated along twisting walkways.

It was a beautiful place, if a little smaller than Ignis had envisioned, and he could see himself quite happily spending the foreseeable future here.

His first meeting with the lord of the manor had certainly been interesting, and getting a laugh out of his new employer was probably a good sign — even if it had been for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps he would grow to like it in this unusual place.

A quiet knock came at the door, and he was so lost in the view he scarcely heard it. It came again, more insistent, and a voice drifted through.

‘Master Scientia?’

He recognised Crowe from her voice and found himself convinced that he would be hearing much more of it in the months to come.

‘Yes?’ he replied, scarcely turning.

He heard the hinges creak as the door carefully opened; heard the floorboards ache beneath the girl’s weight. When she did not immediately speak, he sighed and turned to face her.

Something of her name seemed to suit her, he decided, as he had the first chance to study her in private. Her nose was prominent enough to be noteworthy, although it only seemed to add character to her face. Her lively brown eyes took him in keenly, and seemed to betray an intellect that she probably had very little chance to show.

‘The young miss is back from her visiting her cousins,’ Crowe said. ‘The sir thought you might like to meet her before dinner.’

Ignis sighed and inclined his head. He had rather been looking forward to making his new charge’s acquaintance, prior to his arrival; now, after all the confusion, he found himself a little less sure. At the very least, he hoped he’d like her. He’d heard tales enough of the children of the landed gentry, and how they were so often spoilt.

No different than him growing up, really.

Crowe led him down to the front hall, where Mr. Amicitia stood with a young girl. She was unusually tall, although in the lanky way he’d seen of girls who would grow no taller after their fourteenth birthday. Her dark hair was cropped at jaw-length, hanging in uneven strands.

Ms. Elshett was there too, tutting and tsking while she inspected the girl’s hair. From what Ignis could gather, the haircut had been an impromptu one.

‘Ah,’ Mr. Amicitia said, turning to Ignis. ‘And here he is. Iris, this is Ignis Scientia, your new tutor. Master Scientia, my daughter, Iris.’

Ignis watched the girl’s eyes narrow shrewdly, and he felt a flutter of fear go through him that this would be the precise moment at which he could mark the steady decline of his career. It was embarrassing enough that he had thought he’d been answering the post of a tutor, not a governess, without the sharp wit of a young lady in making to add insult to injury.

She took him quite by surprise when she suddenly crossed the room, tersely sticking her hand out for him to shake.

It was so bald-faced that Ignis almost didn’t take her hand in turn, but she seemed unwilling to accept any sort of refusal from him. Just beyond her, Ms. Elshett shook her head and exchanged an amused glance with the lord of the manor.

‘Papa told me you were supposed to be a girl,’ Iris said, once Ignis had let go of her hand. ‘You don’t look much like a girl.’

‘Iris!’

The interjection came from Mr. Amicitia himself, who covered his face with his hand.

In spite of himself, Ignis couldn’t help but smile.

‘Will you be eating with us tonight?’ the girl said, turning to Ignis.

Ms. Elshett had mentioned something about Iris being incorrigible in their correspondence — that their last governess had been able to do little about her impertinence and clear disregard for etiquette.

 _Truly,_ Ms. Elshett’s first letter had said, _I believe at times that the young miss believes she’s one of the boys._

‘He shall,’ Mr. Amicitia replied. ‘But first you need to wash up, Iris. You still have muck from the road all over your skirt.’

Iris didn’t even seem to hear her father’s words, instead spinning around as though searching for someone.

‘Is Gladdy home?’ she said, staring pointedly at her father.

‘Later,’ Mr. Amicitia said, with an impatient wave of his hands. ‘Go wash up, before I have Ms. Elshett carry you.’

As if to prove his words, the housekeeper took a sudden step toward Iris, which sent the girl running up the stairs, squealing in play-terror as she went.

‘Do you find your room to your liking, Master Scientia?’ Mr. Amicitia said, shortly after Iris had disappeared.

Ignis nodded politely.

‘It has a wonderful view, sir,’ he said. ‘The gardens are truly magnificent.’

‘My late wife’s influence,’ Mr. Amicitia replied. ‘I’m afraid I was quite at a loss when I inherited not only the estate, but the flowers that came with it. You can, of course, wander freely about the gardens as you please. Iris’s last governess used to take lessons with her outside, when the weather was fine.’

The exchange of pleasantries was an intimidating prospect for Ignis; he had been raised to make small talk with those of similar standing, but this was the first time he had ever really been in the company of someone who was now his social better. It was going to be quite an adjustment.

He was saved the anxiety of floundering for something polite to say as a young man stepped into the room. It was the one from earlier, who had been so rude on Ignis’s arrival. He looked a great deal cleaner and more put-together.

Ignis regarded him coolly, but the young man didn’t so much as bother returning his glance.

‘Gladiolus,’ Mr. Amicitia said. ‘Now is as good a time as any to introduce you to Iris’s new tutor, Ignis Scientia. Master Scientia, this is my son, Gladiolus.’

Ignis’s heart lurched. It couldn’t _really_ be true — this man, who had arrived at the door all filthy and dishevelled, was Mr. Amicitia’s son?

Ignis could feel the colour drain from his face. He had addressed this young man as though he were a servant; no wonder he had been so curt in response.

‘We’ve met,’ Gladiolus said bluntly. ‘Iris home yet?’

His father seemed oblivious to the tension in the room, although Ms. Elshett’s eyes flicked from Ignis to Gladiolus and back again, as though she were somehow privy to the situation. Perhaps Crowe had filled her in.

‘Just arrived,’ Mr. Amicitia said. ‘Although—’ he put out a hand to stop Gladiolus here, with a stern look ‘—I had enough trouble sending her off to wash up without you distracting her all the more. You’ll see her at dinner. Master Scientia will be there, too.’

Gladiolus turned, and for the first time since their formal introduction, he met Ignis’s eye. His upbringing was plain to see now, in the way he held himself: the tilt of his jaw, the cut of his clothes. He had a labourer’s muscles hidden away, however, under his brocade vest and neatly-pressed shirt — and his skin was deeply tanned, as if from hours spent under the sun.

‘I guess I’ll see you then,’ the young man said, his eyes never leaving Ignis’s.

Ignis looked away first, his heart thudding, and Gladiolus passed him on the steps, knocking his shoulder ever so slightly as he went.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The worst part of living in the city was, undoubtedly, that when foul weather rolled in, the smog seemed to multiply it. What manifested as a light drizzle of rain would steadily worsen, condensing until anyone who ventured into it for even the briefest of moments should find themselves drenched to the bone. Already dull, grey skies would become oppressively black, until it seemed that they had eaten up the sun altogether.

Ignis decided that he did not miss dreary weather in Insomnia, as a matter of fact, as soon as he woke up to find that it was raining at Gardenia Hall — but it was a different kind of rain, it seemed, as he opened the window and popped his head outside. There was a fresh smell to the place that he could only presume to be petrichor, and when he sucked in a deep lungful of it, it felt as though it were his first real breath after a lifetime of cloying, toxic city air.

When he opened his door, there was a basin of warm water waiting for him, along with a fresh towel. He used it quickly to bathe and dressed for his day, eager to be off to lessons.

He had only been at Gardenia Hall for three weeks, but he felt he was settling in nicely. Iris certainly seemed to like him, although it was hard to believe there was anyone she didn’t like. Indeed, she approached everyone with such refreshing candour that he wondered if anyone could ever truly bring themselves to dislike her.

He breakfasted quickly, buttery toast and a sliced apple from the orchard, and when he had been sure that every sliver of apple skin was gone from his teeth, he had ventured for the dayroom where Iris took her lessons.

It was neatly-kept, if only at Ignis’s insistence; another of Iris’s particular  _ quirks _ was her apparent aversion to tidiness, and if she wasn’t leaving whichever rooms she occupied in a state of chaos, she was swanning about the manor with bare feet and a dirty face.

It was no wonder, really, that Mr. Amicitia had been so vehement about finding someone to try to get her to toe the line, although Ignis might admit — under great duress, of course — that the child was rather endearing.

He set about gathering up the books he’d need for the day from the shelves behind his desk, fingers lingering over the volumes. Like much at Gardenia Hall, they were well-thumbed and much-loved, dearly kept but in dire need of replacement. He sighed and plucked at the copy of the book on arithmetic that he had inherited along with the post, deciding that he would have to send to Insomnia for some of his books with which to supplement the collection.

A knock came at the door; he expected Crowe — Iris certainly didn’t knock before lessons, or  _ ever _ , really — but instead he turned to find Gladiolus standing there, his bulky stature taking up much of the frame.

It was difficult for Ignis to restrain the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Gladiolus’s appearance seldom boded well at the manor, particularly when it was unexpected.

‘Yes?’ he said instead, rather impressed with his ability to sound less exasperated than indifferent. At least he wasn’t expected to call Gladiolus  _ sir. _

‘Iris won’t be joining you today,’ Gladiolus said. ‘She’s laid up with a fever.’

Ignis felt a pang of concern for the girl. She had seemed subdued yesterday, which was certainly out of character for her.

‘Is she all right?’ he asked, setting the book down on the desk to give Gladiolus his full attention. ‘Have you sent for the doctor?’

‘Not yet,’ Gladiolus replied. ‘She’s ill a lot when the weather changes. She’ll be back to her old tricks in no time.’

He shuffled his arms, folding them across his chest, and glowered out the window across the room. He seemed to do a lot of that — glowering. 

‘I can bring work for her to do when she’s feeling better,’ Ignis said, quickly turning to root around in his satchel. ‘She seems to enjoy poetry well enough, so perhaps—’

‘Just take the damn day off,’ Gladiolus said sharply, cutting him off. ‘You can bore her to death tomorrow.’

The urge to pinch the bridge of his nose was back; Ignis almost didn’t bother to fight it this time. Instead he turned to look at Gladiolus, affixing him with a cold stare, and tilted his chin upwards with disdain.

‘I suppose you must be terribly bored yourself,’ he said with a sniff. ‘With the weather so dreadful, you shan’t be able to muck about outside with the servants. What  _ ever _ shall you do to keep yourself amused?’

It was almost satisfying to watch Gladiolus’s jaw clench, a nerve twitching somewhere by his temple.  _ Almost, _ until Gladiolus turned and stalked away without another word, leaving Ignis alone with little more than a cold, empty feeling in his chest.

With a sigh, he returned the books to their rightful places and slung his satchel over his shoulder, heading for the door.

* * *

There wasn’t much to do at Gardenia Hall when the weather took a turn for the worse, as it transpired, particularly when one’s usual task for the day was disrupted. Ignis would have been more than content to read, but when he returned to his room he found himself restless, unable to sit still.

He turned his attention toward the window, standing up from his chair to peer out of it.

There was something about the sky’s dull hue that seemed to accentuate the green of the gardens, the white of the gardenias. He found himself studying the land surrounding the manor, taking in the trees sprawling off for miles beyond the boundary of the neatly-groomed gardens. 

At the edge of the wood there was a greenhouse that Iris had shown him in his first week; he had paid it little heed, knowing less than nothing of horticulture, but it caught his eye now upon seeing the soft glow of a light within.

The greenhouse had been the domain of the lady of the manor, he had learned, prior to her passing. He had enjoyed hearing Iris recount all that she could remember of her mother, as she had spoken of spending hours at a time in the greenhouse with her, memorising the names of flowers and their purported hidden significance.

The light had drawn his eye to the greenhouse, but it was curiosity that kept it there. Other than Iris, he didn’t know of anyone else who showed interest in the flowers — both exotic and native — contained within its walls. He found himself watching with wonder as a silhouette moved about inside, scarcely visible beyond the fogged glass.

Mr. Amicitia had given him free rein of much of the manor, with few places off-limits. Although the greenhouse hadn’t expressly been listed among the locations he was free to peruse, he supposed that Iris hadn’t shown any hesitation in bringing him there.

He pulled a cloak from his wardrobe — about the most waterproof thing he owned — and tucked it under his arm, slipping out of his room and heading through the house.

Outside, he draped it over his head and hurried across the grounds, treading as carefully as he could over the waterlogged pathways. By the time he made it to the greenhouse doors he had cold, slick water trickling down his sleeves and face, and when he ducked inside and let his cloak drop, his hair was all but plastered to his head.

The greenhouse, at least, was unseasonably warm, kept to a more tropical climate by the steam that ran through copper pipes underground and between floors at the manor to provide heat. It wasn’t long before he was sweating, and he gave in to the temptation to unbutton the top of his collar.

While ignorant in horticulture, he could at the very least appreciate the beauty of the breeds that had found their home here: roses of every shade; many-petalled flowers in yellows and oranges; white blooms, languid petals opened wide.

He wandered down the aisle between the beds of flowers, peering through tall stems and shrubby growth to try to find the source of the illumination. It seemed to be coming from a workbench at the far end of the greenhouse — which he knew from his prior visit to be deceptively long — so he ventured forward, flicking the rain from his hands as he went.

The heady smell of the place enshrouded him, fresh plumes of fragrance fanning through the air as he brushed past. The workbench came into view and he could see a figure huddled over it, whom at first he believed to be the lord of the manor himself; as he stepped closer, however, he could see that the arms exposed below rolled sleeves were tanned, and his hair was not grey but dark brown, long and rakishly tied.

Recognition hit Ignis with a lurch, and he was more than a bit surprised to see Gladiolus there, not blundering about as he’d expect in an attempt to woo his way into a girl’s skirts, but meticulously unpotting a flower and moving it into a larger container.

Ignis watched him cup his hands around the soil housing it, cradling it as if it were the most precious of cargo. When Gladiolus moved it to its new home, he pressed it carefully into place with dextrous fingers.

On his face was careful concentration, the kind of look in his eyes that Ignis had only ever seen when Gladiolus spoke with his sister, and it was a long while before Gladiolus ever realised he wasn’t alone.

When he did, turning to Ignis, his expression soured, his eyebrows dragging down into a scowl.

‘No books in this place,’ he said curtly. ‘Did you lose your way?’

Ignis couldn’t bring himself to retort with a cutting remark — something about seeing Gladiolus engage in something so diligently, so attentively, so  _ affectionately, _ cast him in a different light.

‘I didn’t realise you come here,’ Ignis said softly; it felt disrespectful, somehow, to disturb the quiet of the place.

Gladiolus swept him with a glance before turning back to his task, his shoulders rounding over his work as he scooped handfuls of fresh soil from another pot to fill in the gaps in the flower’s new bedding. Once he was done, he brushed his hands together to dislodge the worst of the dirt, and turned around to face Ignis.

‘Nobody but me and Iris to look after it,’ he said. ‘Our father would’ve let it grow wild if we’d left it to him.’

He looked Ignis over again and, seemingly oblivious to the soil still clinging to his skin, folded his arms across his chest. The white of his shirt was already stained, although he hardly seemed to care.

‘Why are you here?’ Gladiolus prompted.

It was a very clear signal that Ignis wasn’t welcome, which served only to fill him with the kind of spite that he seldom had opportunity to experience. Iris had been more than happy to show him the greenhouse, gleefully listing off the names of the blooms along the way, but to Gladiolus this seemed little more than a chance to remind Ignis of his station.

‘I saw a light,’ Ignis replied. ‘I thought perhaps it was one of the servants. Imagine my surprise when it was you who should be skulking around in here.’

Anger flickered across Gladiolus’s eyes, and he took the slightest of steps forward. It was enough to remind Ignis of the difference in their stature, and to make him shrink back a bit, unconsciously.

‘You’re lucky Iris likes you,’ Gladiolus said, his voice low and cutting. ‘She’s run better people than you out. Expect you wouldn’t last very long if she decided to make your life miserable.’

He moved forward then, long strides taking him in front of Ignis in a matter of seconds, and peered down at him.

‘City boys like you don’t last out here, anyway,’ he said. ‘You’ll miss the creature comforts of home and go running back to hide behind your mama’s skirts before long.’

Here, up close, the gold flecks in Gladiolus’s eyes seemed to dance like fire. Ignis knew that if Gladiolus put his mind to it, he could overpower him easily enough; in a wisp of a daydream, Ignis wondered how many girls had melted under that strong, capable touch, just as adept at brute force as more delicate work.

‘And  _ your _ mother?’ Ignis countered. ‘Would she approve — knowing her son was more content riding on his father’s coattails and bedding his way through the manor staff than finding honest work? That  _ is _ why the governesses keep leaving, isn’t it? If the rumours are to be believed.’

For the second time that day, Gladiolus’s jaw clenched with monumental force of will to keep whatever torrent of abuse he had brewing at bay. It was almost a wonder to watch the rage darken his features, only to be replaced by steely resolve.

‘Get out,’ he said simply, promptly turning his back on Ignis and marching towards the workbench once more.

Ignis’s heart was hammering with the weight of a conflict left unresolved. What had he expected? For Gladiolus to hit him? It certainly wouldn’t have come as a surprise.

He stood watching Gladiolus’s back, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he weighed the wisdom of spitting out some other sly barb. He couldn’t understand the compulsion to try to provoke the man, had certainly never felt so inclined with anyone else, yet it seemed that being  _ ignored _ by Gladiolus was a greater insult than he had ever anticipated.

Shaking his head to himself, Ignis turned and strode back down the length of the greenhouse toward the entrance, water squelching in his shoes with each step.


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed there hung a cloud over Gardenia Hall in the days after Iris first fell ill; when she didn’t recover quite as quickly as anticipated, the doctor was called in, and even he seemed unsettled by her state.

From what little Ignis had seen of her — they let him into her room only once at her request, and she had tired before long — he couldn’t help feel anxious for her wellbeing. She had been pale, her eyes glassy; where one moment she had been weak and frail, the next she had been gripped by a sort of trembling fervour, trying in vain to leave bed with claims that she was well enough.

With no duties to keep him busy other than to plan for lessons in the event that Iris should recover soon, Ignis fell into a sort of restlessness himself. With the rain persisting for the time being, he found himself confined mostly indoors — and always, upon glancing outside at the glow of the lamp within the greenhouse, there was the sullen temptation to pay Gladiolus another visit.

He thought of Gladiolus more than he would like: of how obstinate he was, of how he scarcely seemed to have any respect for his position in the household. It seemed downright impossible that he would inherit the manor someday when he seemed more interested in his flowers than in keeping the place running.

Ignis was situated in the family’s extensive library on a dreary Thursday morning, perusing dusty novels that probably hadn’t seen the light of day in a decade or more, when Crowe stepped in. She seemed disquieted somehow — her eyes lively. He assumed the worst, of course, but when she spoke she could barely contain her excitement.

‘The young miss is out of bed,’ she said. ‘Ms. Elshett thought you might like to see her.’

He was more than happy to follow her through the halls of the manor, keeping pace with her short, quick strides.

Iris was not, as Ignis expected, in her room; Crowe led him downstairs, to the veranda at the rear of the house, where the girl sat in a chair overlooking the garden, sheltered by the roof from the tides of rain.

‘Iggy,’ she said excitedly, as he came into view.

When she reached out to embrace him, he couldn’t rightly refuse — propriety be damned.

She was more frail than when he had last seen her, having shed a great deal of weight during her illness. With the youthful softness gone from her face, she seemed to resemble her brother more now, the amber of her eyes standing out from her pallid skin.

She was excitable as ever, though, and when Ignis pulled up a seat beside her, she let out a steady string of enquiries that he almost couldn’t keep up with.

‘Have you missed me? Were you terribly bored without me? Did you explore the manor? Has Gladdy been treating you well? Has father? Will you bring me on a walk?’

Crowe patted the girl’s head affectionately; in this brief reprieve, Iris struggled to catch her breath, having overworked herself.

‘Master Scientia might walk with you this evening, if the weather looks up,’ Crowe said, with her very best impression of sternness. ‘The Sir said you’ll have to see the doctor first, to be safe.’

The pout Iris wore was childish and petulant, but Ignis was glad to see it. It had been a long few days without her irreverent ways, and the manor had become dreadfully boring in the meantime.

* * *

The fates seemed to align in their favour; while there was still enough light to see by, the rains had kept away long enough that it was deemed acceptable for Iris to leave the house.

Ignis was under strict orders not to tire her, and they couldn’t venture very far with the pathways so muddy and sodden, but he was glad to lead her by the arm for as long as he could, cutting his lengthy strides short so that she could keep up.

‘I hear you haven’t been getting along very well with Gladdy,’ Iris said. ‘He can be a bit of a bull sometimes.’

They were far enough from the house that Ignis didn’t fear being overhead, but he still cast a fretful glance toward the building as though Gladiolus might barge down the path towards them at any moment.

‘I’m afraid he doesn’t like me very much,’ Ignis replied. ‘We seem to be cut from very different cloth.’

‘He’s not always like that, I swear,’ she protested. ‘He’s so sweet and kind when he wants to be. He just doesn’t show it very much.’

Ignis sighed, adjusting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. He wanted to remark that he found it very unlikely, but guilt twisted at his innards. If he was entirely true, he hadn’t put his best foot forward with Gladiolus, either. The young man seemed so arrogant, so sure of himself — Ignis had met other gentlemen like him, and they scarcely gave him the time of day except to remind him of their superior station in life. It was difficult to see past that side of Gladiolus’s nature.

‘I happened upon him in the greenhouse,’ he said, by way of deflection. ‘He was tending to the flowers, as you do. I wasn’t aware it was a hobby of his.’

The sigh that Iris gave was almost dreamy; whether Ignis liked Gladiolus or not, it was clear that his only sibling looked up to him a great deal.

‘It was his idea, you know,’ she said. ‘To tend the flowers after our mother passed. He thought it would be a better memorial than dedicating a bench to her in the botanical gardens at Insomnia, although father did that too, of course.’

‘I’ve never been,’ Ignis remarked quietly. ‘I used to walk past them on my way to school each day, but I never had an interest.’

Iris halted, turning to him suddenly and with such passion that he remembered Ms. Elshett’s orders not to let her overexert herself, yet could do little to follow them.

‘Would you take me someday, Iggy?’ she asked, hanging off his arm. ‘Oh please, please tell me you will!’

Ignis had the distinct feeling that refusal wasn’t an option — certainly not unless he intended to disappoint the girl. It was so difficult to resist giving in to her every whim when her unassuming smile had such a way of brightening the room.

‘We shall see,’ he said. ‘We shan’t be going anywhere without your father’s approval.’

Iris shrugged her shoulders, setting her lovely green cloak swinging about her as she went.

‘It’s not _father_ we have to worry about,’ he said. ‘Everybody knows that Ms. Elshett runs the place, really.’

They looped around the gardens, their path taking them by the fountain at the rear of the manor. It wasn’t running at present, there being little point in the midst of such inclement weather, but the rain had filled the basin of it to overflowing and even now water dripped down over the edge and hit the pool beneath with a musical quality.

‘Do you swim, Iggy?’ Iris asked. ‘I don’t, but I’d love to learn. _Gladdy_ does, of course. He used to summer with our cousins along the coast, and he’d come home each year browner than the last.’

It was difficult not to be chipper with Iris back to her old form; Ignis found it refreshing after the past week of hollow silence in the manor’s halls.

‘I’m afraid I never learned,’ he admitted. ‘There’s not much cause for it in Insomnia.’

‘We should learn together!’ Iris said, pronouncing it with such certainty that it was difficult to imagine a world where it wouldn’t come to pass. ‘Perhaps father will let you come with us to the Vesperpool this summer.’

She was weary by the time they made their way back to the front of the manor, although she did her best to hide it. He found, as opened the door for her and held it open, that she didn’t so much hold his arm as lean on it.

Gladiolus was waiting for them, of course, his arms folded across his chest and brow furrowed into a scowl of disapproval.

‘Gladdy,’ Iris said, her enthusiasm tempered somewhat by exhaustion. ‘Ignis said he’ll take me to—’

 _‘Master Scientia_ won’t be taking you anywhere,’ Gladiolus snapped. He levelled his eyes on Ignis, all but glowering at him. ‘I thought you said you’d take it easy with her. She’s still weak.’

It seemed futile to bother arguing; before Ignis could even open his mouth to protest, Gladiolus was striding forward, taking Iris’s other arm in his own and tugging her impatiently away.

‘Dr. Armaugh said you’ll only make yourself unwell again if you aren’t careful,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Master Scientia should have known better.’

If Iris could ever be called badly behaved, it was only in the presence of her father or brother. With servants or with Ignis, she was presumptive at worst — protesting half-heartedly before doing as she was told. In his month at Gardenia Hall, Ignis had witnessed a handful of occasions where Iris had outright put her foot down with the two main men in her life.

When she did so now — quite literally, stamping a mud-stained boot on the wooden floor — Ignis could feel trouble brewing that he would only worsen with his continued presence. Yet he couldn’t excuse himself quite quickly enough as he let go of Iris’s arm and she yanked her other from Gladiolus’s grasp, placing her hands on her hips like a proper madam.

‘I’m not a baby, Gladdy,’ she said sharply, jutting her jaw defiantly. ‘I can look after myself. And _you’re_ only being pig-headed because you think Iggy’s smarter than you.’

For a moment it seemed as though Gladiolus would blow up, chastising her sister for being disrespectful, but it seemed as though the man could do little more than gape at her in disbelief.

‘See?’ Iris said. ‘You can’t even deny it.’

She rushed off then, storming past Gladiolus. Her stomping, angry footsteps pounded all the way up the stairs and through the house, punctuated by the slamming of a door, after which followed an echoing silence.

Gladiolus turned his glance to Ignis, and Ignis knew better than to meet it; he ducked his head, taking sudden interest in the filthy state of his shoes, and busied himself with the fastening of his cloak.

‘I’ll be off,’ he said.

He stepped promptly around Gladiolus and headed for the stairs, leaving the other man no room to protest.

* * *

He had a light supper with Iris that evening, taken in their lesson room; Crowe brought them plates of curried potatoes, and afterwards some warm milk and biscuits, which Iris invited her to sit and share with them.

Ignis rather enjoyed these rare moments — living in the twilight between family friend and servant. He could see Iris here at her most candid, and Crowe at her most quick-witted; he was more than happy to sit back and listen as the two talked of books they had read, their companionable chatter pleasing to the ear.

‘You must know so many writers,’ Iris said, turning to him brightly. ‘All of the best ones come from Insomnia!’

He chuckled softly; her enthusiasm was endearing.

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘Although a boy I went to school with penned a play that was put on for a duke’s audience.’

The others seemed suitably impressed, Crowe nodding emphatically.

‘My mother was once in love with a writer from Altissia,’ she said. ‘Or was he a painter…?’

‘They’re all stuck in their heads in Altissia,’ a new voice said — Gladiolus stood by the door, leaning against the frame. ‘It’s a wonder they get anything done.’

As had come so often to be the case, Ignis’s stomach clenched at Gladiolus’s sudden arrival. His expression was inscrutable for once, devoid of the usual irritation that seemed to cling to it whenever Ignis was involved.

‘Gladdy loves to read, too,’ Iris said. ‘But he’ll never admit it because he thinks it’s a waste of time.’

As Gladiolus made a disgruntled face at her, she stuck her tongue out at him in turn.

‘Right, little miss,’ Crowe said, standing up. ‘It’s time to get you off to bed before Ms. Elshett has my hide. I’ll be back to tidy up after, Master Scientia.’

Iris put up a valiant fight, but as always she gave in to Crowe’s coaxing, after promises that they would read together before bed. Before Iris left, she slipped her arms around Ignis’s middle and hugged him tight, and he could only sit there uncomfortably, making a pointed effort at avoiding Gladiolus’s gaze.

‘I missed you,’ she said at his ear. Then more softly, so only he could hear, ‘Don’t let Gladdy intimidate you. He has a soft heart, really.’

The room felt all the quieter for the girls’ absence, a sort of silence falling over it that felt only heavier for Gladiolus’s presence. He stepped through the door, shutting it behind him, and stood by it without saying anything for a long while.

‘I expect you’ve come to chide me some more for bringing Iris out today,’ Ignis quipped.

Better to get the tension out of the way, he supposed; prolonging it wouldn’t lessen the damage.

Gladiolus’s jaw clenched, and it seemed at first that he might burst out with some enraged response, but a curious thing happened — he closed his eyes, breathed slowly in and out, and when he opened them again there was a look of resignation upon his face.

‘I came to apologise,’ he said. ‘For bein’ so harsh. You were just trying to make Iris feel better after bein’ locked away in her room all week.’

All Ignis could do was blink at the other man, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. It seemed so improbable that Gladiolus should ever consider himself _sorry;_ he could only assume that there was something more to it.

‘Did you mean to say anything else?’ Ignis prompted.

Gladiolus sighed, tossing his head.

‘No,’ he said bluntly. ‘That’s it.’

He turned, his hand going for the doorknob, and Ignis felt that same guilt from earlier rotting within him. Perhaps he, too, was being overly harsh. As much as he hoped for Gladiolus to give him a chance, he supposed he should extend the other man the same courtesy.

‘Wait.’

Gladiolus paused, letting his hand drop. When he turned, there was something of an impatient look on his face; Ignis couldn’t say he blamed him.

‘I’ve been a bit… ill-mannered with you, too,’ Ignis said, clearing his throat delicately into his hand. ‘I never apologised for how I spoke to you at the greenhouse. I was out of line.’

For just a moment, Gladiolus held his gaze. Surprise was written there — respect, perhaps, albeit grudging. Gladiolus looked promptly away, nodding his head curtly.

‘All right, then,’ he said.

He turned once more, getting as far as twisting the knob this time. He barely had the door open wide enough to slip through before he glanced towards Ignis once more.

‘You got it all wrong, by the way.’

Ignis frowned.

‘Pardon?’

‘About the governesses,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Whatever you heard, whatever people told you, they’re wrong.’

With little else by way of explanation, he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Gardenia Hall’s descent into chaos was a sudden one; it began, unexpectedly, with a kitten.

Iris had been distracted during her morning lessons; Ignis had presumed it to be the usual childish inattention that he, too, had suffered from once upon a time, but she had been fitful in her seat as though she had somewhere else to go. 

‘Miss Iris,’ he had said, peering down at her from his vantage point at his desk. ‘Is there somewhere you would rather be?’

She had shaken her head, of course, but she hadn’t quite been able to meet his eye in that guilty way of hers when she wasn’t being entirely truthful.

He had dismissed his concern for the time being. Whatever it was, he was certain that she would divulge it to him, as she so often did. She loved her brother more than anything in the world, but there were certain things that she would only confide in Ignis.

By the third day of this, however, it became apparent that she wasn’t getting any less distracted; if anything, the issue seemed to be getting worse.

He didn’t want to have to bring it to the lord of the manor — and if he brought it to Ms. Elshett, it would probably invoke even more of a punishment. Asking Gladiolus to have a word with her was the most certain way to ensure that the issue  _ didn’t _ get resolved, and Ignis didn’t much fancy speaking with him even if their relationship had been slightly less fiery of late.

He knew that he could ask Iris outright what had her attention so divided, but he suspected she wouldn’t open up even to him, or she would have already.

In the break between their morning and afternoon lessons, which Iris usually took outside in the fresh air, Ignis decided to follow her. Her movements revealed nothing out of the ordinary, although after a while she almost seemed  _ too _ unsuspicious, as though she might be aware that she were being watched. He resigned himself to having lost this particular battle, and returned to the classroom to prepare for the next lesson.

It was through the window that he spotted her, the pale blue of her dress standing out against the lush green of the grass.

He watched her with narrowed eyes until she disappeared from view, hidden by the copse that lay between the manor and the chocobo stables. Once he was sure that she wasn’t about to emerge, he returned to his desk and sat down, steepling his hands against his face while he thought.

* * *

He didn’t take supper that evening; rather he pulled on his cloak and stepped out into the gloom of the twilight and marched through the grounds toward the stables, following the path he had seen Iris take.

True to his earlier suspicions, there was nothing else out here — certainly nothing to amuse a young girl of Iris’s age. As he neared the chocobo stables, lit up by lanterns that hung from the eaves, he became convinced that perhaps he was wrong about his suspicions. Maybe Iris hadn’t been up to anything untoward; maybe she had merely come to visit the chocobos in her spare time, knowing her father wouldn’t approve.

He could see no sign of the stable hand as he approached the doors, so he let himself in.

He had never taken much interest in chocobos; they were large, filthy creatures, with a tendency to make their awful squawking noise with no warning. They were present almost to overcrowding in Insomnia, used to draw carriages and carts alike. Even the Crownsguard, the city’s police force, had mounted units who rode those awful things, bred in grey plumage to signal their allegiance to the crown.

There were no yellows or greys in the Amicitias’ stables, of course — fiery reds, vibrant greens, ocean blues and even a gold, and although Ignis found the creatures repugnant, even  _ he _ couldn’t help but be impressed. It was fashionable for the lower middle class in Insomnia to feed their steeds various roots, fruits and herbs to temporarily dye their plumage vivid colours — to breed true colours into one’s chocobos took dedication.

He knew that Mr. Amicitia indulged in many an enterprise to keep their family in money, supplementing the fortune they had inherited: there was a shipyard along the coast near Caem, supplying vessels for the war against Niflheim, as well as the mine in Leide. He had known of Mr. Amicitia’s dabbling in chocobo breeding, although he hadn’t quite estimated the scale.

He wandered down the aisle, sure to stay in the middle away from any pecking beaks, and glanced about as he went. There were plaques hanging from some of the stalls — writs of ownership for various individuals with addresses across the continent. In front of the gold was a plaque declaring it a gift to the king of Lucis.

By the time he made it to the end of the row, he was convinced that he had sent himself on a fool’s errand. Perhaps Iris had suspected he was still watching and had come here as a decoy. He should have known better than to underestimate her.

There was a single black chocobo in one of the last most stalls, which he hadn’t noticed previously — it was hidden from view, sitting on the ground with its legs tucked beneath it. Curiosity drove him to peer over the top of the door; black chocobos were a rare breed, their dark plumage having come to be an ill omen during the reign of an earlier monarch, and they had consequently been bred out almost to extinction.

Ignis had to admit, it was a majestic creature. Its inky black feathers seemed to glisten in the lamplight, the soft plumage fluttering slightly as it breathed in and out in slumber.

He turned away, ready to head for the manor, when he heard a faint noise that sounded too weak to have come from one of the chocobos — a sort of plaintive squeal, like an animal in need. He thought at first that perhaps it had been the black, but it seemed untroubled as it slept.

He was perplexed as he left the stables, no closer to solving his mystery. Perhaps Iris had sent him on a wild goose chase after all.

The stable hand was returning from his cottage as Ignis emerged; in the man’s grasp was a bottle and a heel of stale bread.

‘Rats,’ the stable hand said. ‘Filthy buggers get into the stalls and eat the chocobo eggs. Poison’s the only thing’ll take care of ‘em, although they’re getting smart — won’t touch the stuff I put down.’

* * *

Secrets seldom stayed hidden for long at Gardenia Hall. Misdeeds, in particular, had an uncanny way of coming to light — whether it was through discovery by Mr. Amicitia himself, or by the shrewd deduction of the manor’s housekeeper. 

It was not a rare occurrence for Ignis to walk by a doorway and see Ms. Elshett within, scolding a member of staff for failing to clean something to her exacting standards, or for breaking something in the line of work. Crowe was usually at the receiving end of her tirades, so Ignis was not entirely surprised to open his door a few days later and discover that she had failed to lay out water for his ablutions that morning.

He dressed hastily and ventured downstairs. If Crowe wasn’t going to do her job, he supposed he’d have to do it himself.

He found her sitting at the foot of the stairs. From the way her shoulders shook, and the feeble little sounds coming from where she hid her face in her arms, he gathered she was crying.

With every intention to comfort her, he paced down the stairs, but it was then that he became aware of sharp voices coming from Mr. Amicitia’s study.

‘She’ll need to be punished,’ a clipped voice said. It was Ms. Elshett, her usually warm voice now curt. ‘It isn’t just a little bit — it’s a whole wheel of cheese since last week, and three bottles of milk. The Astrals know how much else she’s taken that we haven’t caught.’

He could hear Mr. Amicitia’s response, too low to pick out, but he certainly didn’t sound pleased.

‘What happened?’ Ignis asked, as he got to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course not,’ Crowe said with a wretched sniff, lifting her tear-streaked face to look at him. ‘Ms. Elshett’s says I’ve stolen from the larder, but I didn’t — I swear.’

He found it hard to believe that Crowe — Crowe, who loved Iris like a little sister — would put her work on the line over  _ food,  _ particularly when all the manor’s staff were well-fed. He patted her shoulder reassuringly and moved past her toward the study, sure that he must have been able to help get to the bottom of things.

He knew, strictly speaking, that he was under orders not to disturb the lord of the manor in his study unless summoned. The door was wide open, however, and he stood at the edge of it as he peered within, where he could see Mr. Amicitia leaning back in his chair, his face buried in his hand.

‘Pardon my intrusion,’ Ignis said. ‘But I scarcely believe Crowe would lower herself to stealing from you. There must be some kind of mistake.’

He wouldn’t have been surprised if Mr. Amicitia had ordered him out; it was even  _ more _ out of the ordinary when he didn’t. Ms. Elshett turned around to give him a look before rounding on the lord of the manor once more.

‘You know I care for that girl as if she were my own family,’ the housekeeper said, ‘but a thief’s a thief.’

Mr. Amicitia sighed and put out a hand to silence her. Ignis waited, tense, while the man seemed to mull over his options; by the end of it there was a stern sort of look of foreboding on his face, as though he had come to a decision he wasn’t pleased about.

‘You are correct, Ms. Elshett,’ Mr. Amicitia said. ‘She’ll have to be dismissed, of course. I can give her until the end of the month to get her affairs in order, but no longer.’

As if Crowe were his own kith and kin, Ignis felt the weight of the sentence all too heavily. She was a good, kind girl — wittier than she had any right to be, and perhaps a bit over-familiar with Iris, but Ignis couldn’t imagine a Gardenia Hall without her in it. Worse still: if she were dismissed on charges of stealing from her employer, even if the local constabulary weren’t involved she would most certainly struggle to find a new post.

He could see Mr. Amicitia waving Ms. Elshett off, his decision having been made; the housekeeper bobbed in a little curtsy and turned to go. Ignis knew that once Ms. Elshett gave Crowe the news, she’d be devastated.

Perhaps he wasn’t thinking ahead; perhaps he wasn’t thinking  _ at all. _ All he knew was that he couldn’t let this happen.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t Crowe. It was me.’

That seemed to get Mr. Amicitia’s attention; his head snapped up, and his cool blue eyes levelled on Ignis in a stare that made his blood turn to ice.

‘Well,’ the man said sharply. ‘While I appreciate your honesty, I’m afraid I can’t offer you a less strict punishment. I’ll have to—’

Ignis didn’t quite hear Mr. Amicitia’s next words, although he could imagine the gist of them even as they were drowned out by a plaintive wailing coming from the foyer. Ignis turned and looked; Iris stood by Crowe at the foot of the stairs, hands in fists at her sides while fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘It wasn’t Iggy, Papa,’ she said, her voice coming out in little sobbing coughs. ‘It was m- me.’

‘Iris?’

A breeze whooshed past Ignis as Mr. Amicitia stepped by him, striding into the hallway. When he lowered himself to his haunches by his daughter’s side, however, there was nothing stern about his demeanour.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you get enough to eat?’

‘It wasn’t f- for me,’ Iris hiccuped. ‘It w- was for the kitten.’ 

‘The kitten?’ Mr. Amicitia prompted. It was plain to see that he was just as confused as anyone else. ‘What kitten?’

‘The one I f- found outside,’ Iris said. ‘Sh- she doesn’t have a mama, and she’s s- scared and hungry and I had to take her in, I just  _ had to. _ ’

Mr. Amicitia turned with a sheepish look on his face. It seemed to Ignis that he had never seen a man of quite such stature look quite so recalcitrant. 

‘I believe we’ve solved our mystery,’ he said primly. ‘Master Scientia, please disregard this conversation with my apologies.’

There was little more to it after that — the culprit having been found, there was nothing to do but restore the rhythm of the day.

* * *

Iris was sullen during lessons; as quick to giving ill-tempered responses as to saying nothing at all.

Her father had told her, of course, that the kitten could not stay — and although Ignis thought it perhaps a little cruel, he could understand the sense in it. A cat was another mouth to feed, and a lot of responsibility that Iris likely wouldn’t be able to shoulder alone; never mind the mess it would make.

Ignis supposed, in some ways, that it was punishment as well. Iris had stolen and kept secrets about it, and it had almost cost everyone dearly.

He was not surprised when Iris excused herself to her room after their final lesson and did not emerge for the rest of the evening. Crowe tried to coax her out, and Gladiolus, and when both had failed they had tried to enlist Ignis’s help. She hadn’t even answered his knock at the door.

He knew that, with time, she would come to understand. Such childish fixations were often passionate but short-lived, and Ignis could remember when he had brought tadpoles home in a jar and his uncle had told him it was simply out of the question that he keep them; although it had felt like the end of the world at the time, he had soon forgotten about it.

The skies had opened up since this morning; Ignis sat musing over the day’s events by his window while the rain pattered against the panes when a knock came at the door. It was late — late enough that he had been considering turning in for some time — and it was unusual to be disturbed at such an hour. He quickly made himself decent, wrapping a paisley dressing gown around himself, and opened the door.

It was Crowe. She looked pale and worried.

‘Miss Iris is gone,’ she said. ‘Don’t know how long. I brought some warm milk up and she didn’t answer, and when I opened the door her room was empty.’

He felt fear course through him. This was worse than her illness, somehow — more immediate. Perhaps if he had tried to console her, he might have been able to prevent this from happening.

Crowe brought him downstairs after he hastily dressed; a party had gathered within the foyer, equipped with lamps and heavy cloaks to fend off the rain. He could see Ms. Elshett rallying the troops, sending teams of two out into the dark of the night. Gladiolus had yet to leave; he marched over to Ignis once he was at the foot of the stairs.

‘You’re with me,’ Gladiolus said, handing over a lamp. ‘She’s more likely to answer to us.’

It was miserable out — a slick, heavy rain that had Ignis longing for the wet season to be at an end. Worse yet, it reduced visibility even more severely, the cloud cover overhead blocking out the moonlight, and Ignis didn’t get very far before stepping ankle-deep into a pool of mud.

‘Do you think she’d go far?’ Ignis asked as he forcibly removed his foot from the mire, almost losing his boot along the way.

Gladiolus shook his head.

‘She knows the grounds like the back of her own hand,’ he said, ‘but she’s doing this because she’s upset with Father. She wouldn’t put herself in real danger.’

They checked the greenhouse at first, the most obvious hiding spot; they found it empty, with no trace that Iris had been there. From there they gave a cursory glance into the patches of woodland skirting the grounds, but they were too dense for their lamps to penetrate.

‘Wait,’ Ignis said, after a bout of shouting Iris’s name into the trees, with no response. ‘I might have an idea.’

The sounds of the others’ attempts at searching drifted periodically through the night: frantic shouts from the servants, from Mr. Amicitia himself.

Ignis led Gladiolus around the copse and toward the stables. The lights had been extinguished for the night so the structure was just a fuzzy outline up ahead, the glow of their lamps not quite reaching it.

‘The chocobo stables?’ Gladiolus said. His brows were raised quizzically where the lamp lit up his face.

Ignis nodded.

‘Just a suspicion,’ he replied.

The chocobos were all safely slumbering within; as Ignis shone his lamp around, he expected to find any sort of indication that Iris had been there but nothing seemed to betray her presence. They checked within each of the stalls, making slow, steady progress between them.

It was in the last stall, nestled against the black chocobo, that they found her. She was asleep, her face buried in its feathers, cloak pulled over her like a blanket. In her hands was a tiny bundle of black — a kitten, scarcely bigger than the palm of a man’s hand.

It was easy enough to gather her up without waking her, although the black seemed reluctant to see her go. The great bird stood up as if to watch them leave, and below its legs Ignis could see a large egg, tucked protectively into a nest.

There would be scoldings enough when Iris woke the next morning; for the time being, Gladiolus carried her close to his heart, draping the cloak over her to shield her from the rain. When she stirred, he hushed her and nestled her all the tighter against him. She still had the kitten in her hands, clutched to her chest.

‘My father told me what you did,’ Gladiolus said quietly. ‘Taking the blame for Crowe. You didn’t have to do that, you know.’

Ignis brought up a hand and brushed rain out of his eyes, the better to get a look at his companion. He thought there was something in Gladiolus’s glance that he couldn’t quite fathom — gratitude? Respect?

‘It wouldn’t be too much trouble for me to find a new posting,’ Ignis remarked. ‘For Crowe, to be dismissed under such circumstances would be ruin.’

Gladiolus grunted in acknowledgement. For a while, there was just the sound of the rain hitting the ground around them, and the sludgy noise of their boots wading through muck.

‘Maybe next time,’ Gladiolus said, ‘you could curb that urge to be chivalrous and try blaming the rats or somethin’.’

Belatedly, Ignis realised Gladiolus was toying with him, a wry smirk gracing his lips. He decided it was a rather good look for the young man of the manor — certainly better than his near-constant scowl.

‘You know,’ Ignis said thoughtfully. ‘You may have given me an idea.’

Gladiolus scoffed; in his arms, Iris mumbled.

‘That so?’ he countered. ‘For what?’

‘For how Iris may yet be able to keep her kitten,’ Ignis said, ‘and how we can take care of the stable hand’s rat problem.’


	5. Chapter 5

In the coming months, Iris’s kitten — which she had called  _ Iggy, _ much to the chagrin of all involved — became a rambunctious little thing, toddling about where she had no right to be; even Ms. Elshett, who thought cats little better than vermin, didn’t have the heart to banish the creature from her kitchens when she saw just how much Iris fussed over it.

For his part, Ignis supposed he was flattered that his name had been given to Iris’s most precious pet, even if the kitten’s temperament was nothing like his own. In time, it came to follow him around in Iris’s rare absences, and he was often woken at the crack of dawn by a plaintive mewling and scratching at the corner of his door.

He had a suspicion that his attempts at civilising Iris these past few months were having little effect, although the lord of the manor had yet to call him on it. Iris seemed happy, at least, and after he realised she benefited from a more proactive form of learning, he quickly adapted his style to suit her.

Steadily, with the turning of the seasons, Gardenia Hall was starting to feel like home.

Even Gladiolus had begun to warm to him after that night in the rain, and though they seldom had reason to socialise, they would often nod politely as they passed one another in the halls or on the grounds.

In spite of himself, however, Ignis was homesick — not so much for the smog-ridden streets of Insomnia, but for the companions he had left behind. He had exchanged correspondence with them on a handful of occasions, polite stuff, but it was becoming readily apparent to him that they were all rushing off to marry soon.

Even Gladiolus — eighteen years old since his birthday in April — seemed to be rife for gossip amongst the staff when it came to the matter of when he should wed. It was no secret that he was an attractive young man with a great deal of appeal; surely it was only a matter of time until his father found a suitable bride for him.

It was one evening, after Ignis’s lessons with Iris had come to a close, that their paths crossed again.

He was in the music room, playing absently on the upright piano. He had been for a while, content to amuse himself with the rich timbre of the keys. Iris had told him, once, that it had been her grandmother’s, by way of her mother; that after the woman had wed Mr. Amicitia, she’d had it brought from Altissia as a memento of her childhood.

Iris had recently indicated some willingness to learn to play, and he was more than happy to oblige, but he was out of practice. His fingers didn’t quite seem to move how he wanted them to, stiff from hours of writing with pen and ink during lessons. To him, the sound of his playing was hamfisted and unpleasant, but when he chanced to glance up he found Gladiolus standing in the doorway, watching with a smile.

‘Mother used to play,’ Gladiolus said. ‘When she was carrying Iris, she couldn’t sleep sometimes — still remember wakin’ in the middle of the night and hearin’ her playing.’

Ignis withdrew his hands from the keys, folding them in his lap. It seemed all at once that perhaps it had been a bit presumptuous to help himself to the piano when it had belonged to the late Mrs. Amicitia.

‘I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds,’ he said briskly. ‘I hadn’t realised anyone was about.’

Gladiolus shook his head. He pushed off from where he leaned in the doorway, unfolding his arms as he went; his sleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular arms, the veins standing out from hours of toil.

‘I don’t mind,’ Gladiolus said. ‘It’s nice to hear somebody playin’. Other than Iris bangin’ on the keys when she was little.’

The image of it elicited a chuckle from Ignis. Perhaps the sooner he taught her to play, the better.

‘Did you ever learn to play?’ he asked, turning on the bench to face Gladiolus.

Gladiolus shook his head. He came to a stop at the edge of the piano and rested a hand on the top of it.

‘Not really somethin’ my father thought was necessary for my education,’ he said. ‘My mother died while I was too young to care about music.’

It seemed to Ignis, at times, that the ghost of the lady of the manor still lingered at Gardenia Hall. Not as a spectre, of course — he didn’t believe in such nonsense — but in the little traces of her that were left behind. The greenhouse, so meticulously tended by her children; the gardenias that became her pride and joy; the delicate feminine touches in an otherwise masculine house.

‘Do you want to learn? Ignis asked.

It was an idle suggestion, really, but he found himself warming to it once the words were out of his mouth. He was Iris’s tutor, true, but surely there couldn’t be any harm in having a little male companionship in his time here.

‘What, from you?’ Gladiolus said. He followed his question with a laugh that was full-bellied and rich, and it filled Ignis with warmth. ‘Meanin’ no offense, but ain’t I a little old for you to tutor?’

With a sigh, Ignis slipped from the bench and stood up. He gestured towards it encouragingly.

‘I certainly don’t think you’re too old to learn,’ he said, ‘and it needn’t interfere with Iris’s studies if we meet in the evenings. Unless you have something else that requires your attention.’

Gladiolus looked at the piano thoughtfully. He seemed to be studying the bench as though he were picturing himself there — or perhaps his mother, as he must often have seen her when he was a young boy.

Ignis was already anticipating Gladiolus’s gruff refusal when the young man looked up and met his eye with a nod.

‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘If you’re willin’, I mean.’

Ignis couldn’t quite explain the thrill of pleasure that went through him. Nevertheless, he smile and nodded, and gestured once more for Gladiolus to take a seat.

‘We could start now, if you like,’ he said. ‘I have nothing else to attend to this evening.’

* * *

Gladiolus was not, as it transpired, a quick learner. He was bright — that much was obvious almost immediately — and certainly  _ eager, _ but his mother’s musical inclinations seemed to have skipped him entirely and favoured Iris.

Ignis had faith, however, and by the end of that first impromptu lesson together, he had at least managed to drill home which key was Middle C. They could work their way up from there.

Iris, meanwhile, seemed to take to music like a duck to water. She had no trouble memorising basic sheet music, and she seemed to have a flair for the dramatic, adding her own little flourishes along the way. Ignis could clearly picture her in a few years, impressing guests with her talents.

Gladiolus joined them one morning, watching with a smile on his lips as Iris played. He swayed his head slightly as though in time to the music, although Ignis couldn’t help but note that his timing was ever so slightly off.

‘Gladdy!’ Iris exclaimed, indignant, when she realised she had an audience. Like a shot, she was up from the bench and rushing over to Gladiolus, pummelling him gently in the stomach.

‘It’s rude to watch,’ she said darkly.

Gladiolus merely stooped to her level, grinning broadly.

‘Then you won’t mind if I was  _ listening, _ huh?’

This earned him another volley of strikes, although he soon overpowered her and wrapped his arms around her, picking her up and swinging her around as though she weighed nothing at all. By the end of it, when he finally obeyed her orders to put her down, her cheeks were pink, her hair a mess, and her eyes eyes afire with laughter.

‘Why don’t you take it from the top, Iris?’ Ignis said, gesturing primly to the piano. ‘Show your brother what you’ve learned.’

Iris, for all her protests, loved being the focus of Gladiolus’s attention. She nodded her head fiercely and strode to the piano with an air of professionalism that put the late greats to shame.

While she played, Ignis moved to Gladiolus’s side to watch with him. It was a wonder to see how much he cared for his only sister, and to watch the subtle smile of encouragement that warmed his lips whenever Iris made a mistake and diligently corrected herself.

‘She reminds me of our mother,’ Gladiolus murmured, ducking a little so that only Ignis could hear him. ‘What I remember of her, anyways.’

Ignis nodded thoughtfully. She was still a child, yes, but there was so much within her that indicated the woman she would someday be. For the first time, Ignis found himself hoping that he could keep his post at Gardenia Hall long enough to meet that young woman.

* * *

The summer had taken a turn for the sultry; for two days now, Ignis had been trying valiantly to maintain his lesson plan, but the heat had Iris bad-tempered and he wasn’t far behind. By noon, with the sun only hitting its peak, he gave up.

‘Get outside for some air,’ he said, sighing. ‘We can make this up tomorrow.’

He suspected, with how quickly Iris jumped from her seat, that she had been waiting for him to say the word. At least it gave him a breather, too, and he was more than happy to retreat to the veranda with a book.

He sat into a chair and leaned back to let what meager breeze there was stir across his skin. Last night had been uncomfortable — he only anticipated worse tonight. After the incessant rains of the spring, the summer only seemed to have brought its own onslaught of suffering.

Soon reading was out of the question, so he resigned himself to fanning his face with the novel he’d brought and watching as Iris lazed out in the grass with Iggy, the kitten frolicking about and pouncing at imaginary enemies.

‘Y’know, the world ain’t gonna end if you loosen up a little.’

He glanced up; Gladiolus stood by the doorway, decidedly informal with his shirt hanging loose, sleeves hastily rolled and collar unbuttoned. He had his hair scooped into a knot behind his head and strangs hung loose where they clung damply to his skin. There was a tray in his hands — a pitcher of lemonade, and three glasses. Ignis couldn’t help but eye them up greedily, even as he mulled over the man’s words.

‘Beg your pardon?’ he said. 

Gladiolus waved towards him.

‘The waistcoat,’ he said. ‘The shirt. Would it kill you to be a little informal for once?’

Ignis almost scoffed — he doubted Gladiolus cared much for etiquette when his family were so well-moneyed, but to a young man like Ignis, it was everything.  _ Loosening up _ as Gladiolus so bluntly put it simply wasn’t afforded to one of his station, particularly in someone else’s home.

‘I’m quite all right,’ he said, even as the book that he was using for a fan seemed to be doing nothing to help. ‘I’m not sure Ms. Elshett would approve if I were to adopt your wilful abandon for propriety.’

Gladiolus’s bark of laughter was so sudden and joyous that Ignis couldn’t help but smile in turn.

‘I’unno,’ he said. He set the tray down by Ignis, stooping so that he could pour out a glass. ‘Maybe it’d break up the monotony a little.’

He handed a glass over and Ignis gratefully accepted it; the first sip was just slightly bitter, but utterly refreshing.

‘Iris,’ he called. ‘Lemonade.’

The girl gave a lazy wave from where she lay in the grass; when she failed to get up, Gladiolus shrugged, poured a glass for himself and settled into the seat beside Ignis.

Ignis couldn’t help but note that the usual covering of dirt seemed to be missing from the young man, his hands uncharacteristically clean. He supposed it was too hot to be out in the greenhouse, even for someone who loved the heat as much as Gladiolus.

‘You’re good with her,’ Gladiolus said. His eyes were on Iris as he spoke; there was something fond in his gaze. ‘You don’t treat her like a little kid, like her governesses used to.’

Ignis remembers — with a bitter twinge — something Gladiolus had said months earlier, about how it had been unlikely that Ignis would last in his post for long. It seems strange to think this is the same man who said those words.

‘She  _ is _ still a child,’ Ignis remarked thoughtfully, ‘but it’s a tentative age. She wants the freedom to make her own decisions, but she needs a firm hand to guide her.’

Gladiolus grunted. He took a sip of his drink, still watching Iris, then turned his glance to Ignis.

‘I never asked,’ he said. ‘You got brothers or sisters?’

Ignis shook his head.

‘An only child. I was always the one the others turned to at school, though. I suppose I’ve always been a bit mature for my age.’

There was a wry look on Gladiolus’s face — knowing. Ignis felt his cheeks heat under the young man’s scrutiny.

‘Sounds about right,’ Gladiolus said. ‘You ever just  _ have fun? _ Do something for the hell of it? Break the rules?’

It was difficult to tell if he was teasing or not, but there was something of a fire in his eyes, as though he were trying to spur on Ignis’s sense of adventure. Ignis was afraid he’d already expended all of it in venturing to Gardenia Hall from the familiar — if predictable — confines of the city.

Ignis couldn’t help but wonder if Gladiolus had ever been told  _ no _ in his life; if he’d ever known what it was like not to have his every whim indulged.

‘It’s all well and good for  _ you _ to break the rules,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re the one making them.’

Gladiolus’s expression darkened and he looked away, shaking his head sullenly. 

‘Just when I think there’s a person under that perfect exterior,’ he muttered, ‘you prove me wrong.’

Surprise prompted Ignis’s jaw to drop, but before he could so much as stammer out a rebuttal, Gladiolus pushed himself up from his seat, grabbed the tray and marched over to where his sister lay in the grass.

It was an idyllic picture — the two of them lazing out on the lawn, the sun beating down on their skin where it was already turning brown from the summer. In the shade of the veranda, Ignis felt very much removed from it: a spectator, and little else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/mooglemallow)


	6. Chapter 6

Unsurprisingly, Ignis’s piano lessons with Gladiolus ended after their spat on the veranda. There was no announcement — Gladiolus merely failed to show up that evening and the next, and Ignis took it to mean that his tutelage was no longer required.

It suited him well, he supposed. Gladiolus had made it rather clear that he was still as hot-tempered as ever, and Ignis had no desire to surrender to the moods of someone so erratic.

At the very least, it gave him some time to himself once more. He found he had missed his quiet reading, particularly now in the summer when it was so pleasant to sit by the open window while the sun endured until well into the evening.

Iris’s piano skills were coming along in leaps and bounds, he was pleased to find; once the heat had finally abated enough that the halls of the manor weren’t quite so stifling, Ignis was content to sit in the music room, windows thrown wide, and listen to Iris as she made her way through the entirety of the first song she had learned.

When she finished, she turned promptly to him and he already had warm words of praise on his lips, but she was frowning as she levelled her glance on him.

‘I don’t know why you and Gladdy can’t just get along,’ she said. ‘You’re both so  _ stubborn.’ _

Ignis could do little more than sigh. He had the distinct feeling this was one of those cases where Iris wouldn’t stop until she had her way; the irony of being called  _ stubborn _ by someone whose will often shaped the whole household wasn’t lost on him.

‘He’ll be the lord of the manor someday,’ Ignis said, turning briskly away to neaten the stack of music notes that were already tidy. ‘And I’m your tutor. We don’t need to have anything more than a professional relationship until you’re ready for me to leave.’

Iris’s pout had the power to move mountains. It was certainly enough to set a pang of guilt through Ignis, although he fought the everpresent urge to pander to her whims just to make her smile.

Besides — it wasn’t as though it was entirely up to him. If he remembered correctly,  _ Gladiolus _ had been the one who stormed off last time.

‘I love both of you,’ Iris said — his protest of  _ ‘Miss Iris, that isn’t very appropriate!’ _ was promptly cut off — ‘and I want you to be friends. And then you and Gladdy don’t  _ ever _ have to leave Gardenia Hall and—’

She was getting upset; Ignis suspected there was more to it than she let on. She turned hurriedly away to cross her arms glumly over her front, but not before he caught a glimpse of the tears brimming in her eyes.

‘What’s this about, Iris?’ he said.

He could tell she was trying very hard not to cry. For someone at an age where tears were very much still a weapon at her disposal, it was as impressive as it was surprising.

‘It’s Gladdy,’ Iris said somberly. ‘He got a letter from the military. It was about the prescription—’

‘Conscription,’ Ignis suggested, helpfully.

_ ‘Conscription,’ _ Iris echoed, with a petulant huff. ‘And they want him to start training and they’re sending him to fight in the war at the end of the summer and I don’t want him to go away, I don’t want him to get hurt!’

When she had finally fallen into silence, her chest heaving from the exertion of blurting out such an emotional string of words, Ignis could only stand and gape at her.

He knew about the conscription, of course — it had become a necessary part of the war effort against Niflheim, since the number of volunteers had begun to dwindle over the generations. He was grateful that a handful of childhood illnesses had rendered him ineligible for service; he’d heard too many stories of young men full of potential who went off to foreign soil and never returned.

‘I’m certain,’ he said, ‘I’m  _ sure _ that Gladiolus will be all right.’

His words sounded hollow even to him. When Iris finally turned to look him in the eye, he suspected she felt the same.

‘Please convince him to stay,’ she said. ‘Tell him you want him to stay! I tried, but he wouldn’t listen.’

The concept of conscription was clearly lost on her — he didn’t have the heart to explain that it was involuntary, only to dash her hopes.

‘I’ll try,’ he said gently. ‘Come now, let’s forget about this for now. You were playing so beautifully.’

* * *

He didn’t stumble across Gladiolus’s path in the coming days. He suspected that the young man had been avoiding him, although in truth he could say the same about himself. He knew he’d likely find Gladiolus in the greenhouse, although the thought of a repeat incident of their first encounter there was enough to put him off.

He lay awake a few nights later pondering Gladiolus’s — and Iris’s — plight. She had always been a passionate child, given to flights of fancy, but her feelings on the matter were clearly sincere. Ignis couln’t say that he blamed Iris for fearing for her brother’s safety when he, too, had begun to think about the cold, harsh realities of war and what they would mean for Gladiolus.

He was  _ trying _ to sleep, but nothing was going quite right: there was too much moonlight streaming through the thin curtains, the residual warmth of the day made his bed linen clammy and uncomfortable, he couldn’t get his mind to settle. With a huff, he pulled his clothes and shoes on and quietly made his way out of the room with every intention of taking a quick walk about the grounds in the darkness to clear his head.

He was partway down the stairs when he heard it: the soft, tentative notes of a piano.

He let the music guide him, treading silently along the hallways of the manor as he went. He knew he should leave whoever it was to their nighttime recital but curiosity drove him onwards until he was at the door of the music room, his hand already twisting the knob.

The room was in darkness but for a single candle on top of the piano, and the shafts of moonlight that fell through the windows. Gladiolus was in shadow where he sat on the bench, but his figure was unmistakable: his shoulders, broad for his age, were rounded as he leaned over the keys, and his dark hair fell into his face, obscuring it.

His playing seemed to have improved since their last lesson, which seemed unfathomable to Ignis. Gladiolus had barely been able to remember the difference between sharps and flats.

Gladiolus hadn’t noticed him yet; he stood in the doorway with the door ajar, watching Gladiolus’s fingers move over the keys. It wasn’t until he seemed to have finished playing that Ignis crossed the room and laid a hand softly on his shoulder.

‘Have you been practicing without me?’ he asked.

Gladiolus took a glance at Ignis’s hand on his shoulder; with a jolt, Ignis pulled it away.

‘I get nervous playin’ in front of you,’ Gladiolus said sheepishly as he turned his gaze back to the sheet music. ‘Always afraid you’re gonna tell me I’m doin’ it wrong.’

A retort was at the ready on Ignis’s tongue to the tune of asking how Gladiolus would improve without critique, but in light of what Iris had told him, he elected to keep his words to himself.

‘You didn’t have to stop coming to our lessons,’ Ignis said. ‘I was rather enjoying them.’

Gladiolus lifted a hand and pressed the pad of his finger gently into one of the keys. It made a low, plaintive sound in the night.

‘I came back,’ he said. ‘A couple days after our quarrel. You weren’t there, so I figured you didn’t want to do it any more.’

Frustration gnaws raggedly at the edge of Ignis’s nerves. He had thought the same, when Gladiolus hadn’t shown up — they might have avoided all of this entirely if they had just spoken to each other.

‘Move over,’ he said gently, ushering the other man along the bench. ‘I’ll show you.’

He took Gladiolus through the piece, walking him patiently through his little errors. All the while, Gladiolus’s words — his fear of being corrected — stuck in Ignis’s mind, and he tried to take it into consideration as they went.

They didn’t get very far before Ignis stopped, ghosting his fingertips over the keys.

‘Iris told me,’ he said, ‘about the conscription. She thinks you  _ chose _ to go.’

Gladiolus’s next note was a misstep, and it rang out discordantly through the room.

‘She wasn’t s’posed to find out like that,’ he replied flatly. ‘She got into my things and found the letter. I wanted to explain it to her, properly.’

At the edge of the room, the door creaked open wider; when Ignis glanced over a dark shape moved across the floor towards them and resolved itself into the form of the kitten as it leapt agilely onto the top of the piano and paraded around mewling for their attention.

Absently, Gladiolus stretched up a hand to pet her. She purred appreciatively in response.

‘When do you leave?’ Ignis murmured.

‘Next week,’ Gladiolus replied. ‘Four weeks of training at the barracks at Vaullerey, two weeks at home, then deployment.’

Ignis couldn’t help but think a month wasn’t very long to ready a man to go off to war; perhaps no amount of time would be enough.

He lifted his own hand to pet the kitten; Iggy pushed forcefully up against it, then rolled into a ball and promptly drifted off.

Ignis thought that he should offer some sort of commiseration, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to say that wouldn’t simply fall flat. He’d never been in Gladiolus’s position — never had to face the great unknown, alone, and under someone else’s orders. It felt as though it would be insulting to reassure Gladiolus that he would be safe, when they both knew well that likely wouldn’t be the case.

Instead, he rested his hands in his lap and looked down at them, swallowing.

‘Are you scared?’ he asked.

He could feel Gladiolus’s shoulder knock him slightly as he nodded.

‘Been putting on a brave face for Iris,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Truth is, I’m terrified.’

Somehow, hearing the words straight from his mouth only drove the situation home. Ignis didn’t think he could ever have imagined Gladiolus scared — for Iris’s well being, certainly, but not for his own — and the fear Ignis saw etched into Gladiolus’s profile as he glanced up made his own stomach twist with dread.

They may have had their differences, but he didn’t want Gladiolus to go away to war; to be one of those young men who were never heard from again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ignis said quietly. It felt like a paltry consolation.

This time, when he rested his hand on Gladiolus’s forearm, he left it there. Gladiolus didn’t glare at him in surprise — just let his head hang and heaved a long, weary sigh.

‘You should get back to bed,’ Gladiolus said quietly. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’

Resolute, Ignis shook his head.

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I’d be glad for the company, if you don’t mind.’

There was a weariness to Gladiolus’s face as he glanced up — it made him look much older, more like his father, somehow. His amber eyes were dull, ringed with dark circles; they were filled with gratitude, however, as they came to meet Ignis’s.

‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/mooglemallow)


	7. Chapter 7

Ignis couldn’t have anticipated that the manor would come to feel so empty without Gladiolus: so hollow. Perhaps it wasn’t merely his absence, but the effect it had on everyone else.

Iris was certainly not her usual cheerful, indomitable self, and Ignis feared that her glum nature now — before Gladiolus had yet to even depart for the war in earnest — would only worsen as the year wore on.

Ignis, too, felt subdued. He tried to throw himself into his lessons, but without Iris constantly questioning him and pressing him at every turn, it felt as though he were going through the motions. Each day was a dull echo of the one before it; in spite of the glorious blue skies outside, the world felt grey.

Try as he might to deny it, he missed Gladiolus. Even their heated arguments had come to be a part of the routine at Gardenia Hall, and without him around — with Iris rapidly withdrawing into herself — it increasingly felt as though Ignis was alone in this grand, stately manor where he was neither family nor servant.

Somehow, four weeks went by. Somehow, the colour seemed gradually to return to the halls of the manor — to Iris, and to Ignis himself. When Iris received a letter confirming the time that Gladiolus would be returning, late on a Friday night, Ignis found himself awaiting the day eagerly.

Mr. Amicitia didn’t entirely encourage the concept of festivities to welcome Gladiolus’s return, although as murmurs went among the staff it seemed inevitable. Extra funds were scraped together to prepare a feast of sorts, and Ignis ventured with Crowe to the nearest town with some of his savings to buy a bottle of brandy for the occasion.

Iris waited up on Friday night for her brother’s arrival. She and Ignis sat in the drawing room playing cards, and after Ms. Elshett irritably banished the young girl off to bed, Ignis patiently played solitaire while he waited until Iris sneaked back down.

‘Do you think he’ll be different?’ Iris asked in a restless whisper as she settled in on the sofa. Iggy was with her, naturally, and the kitten contentedly snuggled into her lap.

Ignis shook his head, although he began to wonder even as he did so. Four weeks wasn’t very long, but that much in regimented discipline could make all the difference for someone like Gladiolus.

‘I don’t know,’ he said gently. ‘I like to think he’ll be the same.’

Gladiolus’s carriage was later than anticipated; Iris had already drifted off, Iggy curled up in her arms, by the time a soft knock came at the door as Crowe appeared to announce Gladiolus’s arrival.

Ignis didn’t stir Iris. He left her resting and tiptoed through the house to the foyer, where Gladiolus was waiting, the few bags he had brought already sitting on the floor. 

Ignis couldn’t quite have explained the sensation that went through him as their eyes met across the foyer. It was equal parts a spark and a low, dull throb, like the quiet joy of returning home after a great many years away.

‘Iris is in the drawing room,’ he said, by way of greeting. ‘She wanted to stay awake to meet you at the door, but she didn’t make it.’

Gladiolus nodded and followed him through the house; they kept their treads light so they wouldn’t wake her, or any of the other sleeping members of the household.

Ignis could tell it was a struggle for Gladiolus not to simply dash across the room and throw his arms around his sister. Instead he crept towards her and dropped to his knees, nudging her gently awake.

Ignis waited only long enough to see Iris blearily open her eyes, her expression of disgruntlement at being disturbed quickly shifting to glee, before he quietly let himself out.

Whatever his own feelings about Gladiolus being back, this wasn’t about him — this moment was theirs alone.

* * *

In some ways, it was as though Gladiolus had never left. His first day back at Gardenia Hall was spent in the greenhouse with Iris, and when they finally emerged — Ms. Elshett had to drag them out to force them to eat — they were bawdy and loud with laughter as they regaled each other with tales from their time apart.

Supper was a rare sit-down affair where even the staff were invited, and Ignis marvelled at seeing all of the manor’s various characters together in one place, perhaps for the first time ever.

‘It’s good to see you home, my son,’ Mr. Amicitia said at his seat at the head of the table, raising a glass filled with wine.

Ignis caught the look on Gladiolus’s face — pride, perhaps, but sadness too. His return would only be for two weeks, after which his absence would endure far longer.

The festivities went on later than anticipated, and even Iris was allowed to stay up past her bedtime. Only once she was bad-tempered with exhaustion, and once the food had begun to dwindle, did the impromptu party wrap up.

‘I have something for you,’ Ignis murmured at Gladiolus’s ear as they rose from their seats. Slipping away from the others, Ignis led him to the drawing room.

The brandy had cost Ignis sorely, but it seemed more than worth it when Gladiolus’s eyes fell on the bottle. Greedily, the man reached out for it and inspected the label, tilting the crystal this way and that to admire the hue.

‘You can’t give me such a fine gift and expect me not to share it with you,’ Gladiolus said. ‘You got glasses?’

‘I can get some,’ Ignis replied.

Ignis wasn’t much of a brandy drinker, he decided, as he took his first experimental taste. In truth, he didn’t partake of alcohol much  _ at all; _ his uncle considered the stuff the fuel of degenerates, and he’d certainly not had the opportunity since arriving at Gardenia Hall. Other than a few spirited brushes with the stuff during his schoolboy days, he wasn’t used to it.

He happily drained his first glass as Gladiolus did, however, scarcely noticing the taste any more as Gladiolus told him all about his training.

‘I already knew swordplay,’ Gladiolus said, shrugging. ‘Fencing’s a helluva lot different than trying to stick somebody to kill. It’s a good thing we were using practice swords, or I’d have a hole or two through me for souvenirs.’

Ignis laughed delicately. The brandy had gone to his head; somehow  _ war _ seemed like such a distant concept, like little toy soldiers hanging from a solstice tree.

‘I’m sure the officers were very taken with you,’ he said. ‘A man of such character and breeding.’

Gladiolus snorted. The sudden, loud noise startled Ignis and sent a rush of heat flooding to his cheeks.

_ ‘Breeding _ doesn’t mean a damn to these people,’ Gladiolus retorted, shaking his head. ‘We all bleed the same colour.’

His statement seemed to drag them back to reality — determined to keep up his high spirits, Ignis grabbed the brandy and poured them each another glass.

‘You know,’ he said, pointing a finger at Gladiolus. ‘Iris has already said she wants to learn fencing. She wants to be just like you.’

Gladiolus gave a full-bellied chuckle. It crinkled his eyes, and the bridge of his nose.

‘Gods help her,’ he said with mock dejection. ‘She couldn’t’ve picked a worse role model.’

Quietly, Ignis took a sip from his glass. The stuff tasted better now with the warmth of it already in his chest.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘It’s rather sweet how she idolises you.’

Perhaps there was a little pride in Gladiolus’s smile as he lifted his glass to his lips. Ignis couldn’t have said he blamed him.

‘It’s good to have you back,’ Ignis said, feeling emboldened by the brandy. ‘The house isn’t the same without you.’

He could feel his cheeks burning as Gladiolus met his eye with a serious glance. Perhaps he had said the wrong thing — perhaps he had been too candid. A month apart hadn’t changed their stations in life.

Gladiolus, however, raised his glass as if to make a toast.

‘We may not always see eye to eye,’ he said, ‘but you’ve become a part of Gardenia Hall, too.’

As Ignis met Gladiolus’s glance with his own, he felt his heart leap within his chest. He was getting ahead of himself. It was the brandy, surely; just the brandy.

Gladiolus’s arm was draped along the back of the sofa, his sleeve rolled up to reveal his forearm. The tan of his skin offset starkly against his white shirt; his hand had little nicks and scars across it, likely from his training.

Slowly, Gladiolus’s fingers curled, then he was lifting his hand and touching his fingertips to Ignis’s cheek. His skin was calloused and rough, but warm — gentle. Ignis felt his breath catch in his throat and when he looked up to meet Gladiolus’s eye, his expression was intent.

‘Never thought I’d say this,’ Gladiolus said. ‘But I missed you.’

It was as though the floor was falling away beneath Ignis. He had read enough romance in passing to know of the trope of women swooning into the arms of their lovers — had always thought it tawdry and unrealistic. The mere brush of Gladiolus’s fingers against his skin, however, had him wondering if it weren’t entirely implausible.

Gladiolus’s thumb stroked gently down his cheek, along his jaw and across his bottom lip. This delicate touch made Ignis shiver in spite of himself, his eyelids fluttering closed not long thereafter.

He would be remiss if he denied that he had missed Gladiolus, too — but  _ this? _ Surely this wasn’t what he had anticipated when he had thought in passing of Gladiolus’s return to the manor. Now that it was happening, however, it seemed to Ignis that he couldn’t possibly want for anything else.

When he opened his eyes, Gladiolus had positioned himself closer. His amber eyes were heavy-lidded, his lips parted slightly — and Ignis found his glance drawn there, to the shape of his mouth, the top lip so very like the double curve of a bow. Ignis wondered, idly, what it would feel like to be kissed by those lips.

Gladiolus, it seemed, was happy to indulge his curiosity; he leaned closer, and Ignis had just enough time to see the dark, glossy strands of his lashes as he closed his eyes before their lips met.

Ignis found himself wrapped up in the taste of Gladiolus, in the heady, masculine smell of him — the sharp, fresh scent of soap on his skin, the slight musk of sweat from his day’s toils.

Gladiolus’s hand had slipped down to his neck, resting gently in the curve of it. Ignis could feel his own pulse thudding against his hand and wondered if Gladiolus could feel it, too. He certainly wouldn’t have been surprised; even the gush of it in his own ears seemed so loud that Gladiolus must surely have been able to hear it.

It didn’t last very long — the gentlest of kisses, tentative and experimental — but Ignis found himself leaning into it even as Gladiolus pulled away.

It struck him that perhaps he was being wanton and absurd; that months earlier they had hated the very sight of one another, and now a mere kiss had him trembling where he sat. Surely Gladiolus — arrogant, handsome Gladiolus, about whom gossip proliferated — had done this dozens of times before, perhaps on this very same seat.

Ignis’s only mistake had been in assuming that it was young  _ women _ upon whom he’d been lavishing his charms, and not young  _ men. _

Yet somehow, when he looked at Gladiolus, there was something shy about his smile. He was breathing quickly; when he lifted his glass to pour brandy onto his tongue, his hand shook slightly.

Perhaps… Perhaps Ignis  _ had _ miscalculated him.

If anyone should chance to walk in now — Crowe, Ms. Elshett, even Mr. Amicitia himself — Ignis felt the very fabric of what had happened would have been written across the two of them, made abundantly clear by the flush he wore on his own cheeks.

The door did not open, however. There was no intrusion, nothing to interrupt their moment: only the two of them, sitting close, Gladiolus’s hand still sitting in the curve of Ignis’s neck.

Ignis let out a slow, shuddering sigh. His heart had yet to cease its relentless hammering within his chest.

Somewhere in the house, a clock rang out. A stillness fell over them as Ignis silently counted out the chimes. Twelve — midnight. It seemed the last few hours had been a whirl of activity, but the past moments had been a slow, feverish dream.

‘It’s late,’ he said.

Gladiolus’s hand slipped from the curve of his neck, along his shoulder and down his arm.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Guess we should call it a night.’

It didn’t entirely sink in until Ignis was safely tucked up in bed later, with the cool glow of the moon bathing the room. They had kissed.  _ Gladiolus kissed him. _

He turned onto his side to face the window, where a sliver of sky was just visible through a gap in the curtains. With a shy, private smile, he touched his fingertips to his lips and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/mooglemallow)


	8. Chapter 8

‘Very good. Now, andantino.’

Ignis saw Gladiolus pause to think, then pick up the pace of his playing just slightly. It was a simple composition, nothing a child would have trouble with; although a month away had done little to help Gladiolus’s skill level, he seemed to be finding his way through it fairly well.

There was still one part that Gladiolus kept struggling with, however — kept fumbling, his fingers seemingly forgetting where they were supposed to be.

Quietly, Ignis stepped up behind him, leaning across his shoulder and taking his hand, moving it gently into place. With his touch on Gladiolus’s fingertips, he guided him through the notes.

It wasn’t until after, in the silence that followed the last note, that Ignis realised how close they were; he was leaning across Gladiolus’s shoulder, his face close enough to smell Gladiolus’s hair if he so chose. He resisted that particular compulsion and pulled away, clearing his throat nervously as he stepped away to stand by the side of the piano.

‘I think that’s enough for now,’ he said briskly.

The closeness had brought back memories of the kiss — it was as though the past two days hadn’t happened and they were still on the sofa in the drawing room, sharing brandy and getting entirely too comfortable with one another.

‘Would you,’ Gladiolus said, haltingly. ‘Would you show me that again?’

A sigh escaped Ignis’s lips before he could quite help himself, but he moved nevertheless to Gladiolus’s side, keeping a respectable distance this time as he leaned over and showed Gladiolus once more. 

Gladiolus parroted it back, but it was all wrong — his timing was off, and he skipped two notes entirely. Impatient, Ignis leaned forward and showed him once more, his chest brushing Gladiolus’s shoulder, and it was only then that he realised what Gladiolus was doing.

Narrowing his eyes shrewdly, he turned his head to look at his student. Gladiolus was grinning at him devilishly, one of his eyebrows raised, and he moved his hand to cover Ignis’s where it sat atop the keys.

Ignis made an attempt at an exasperated sort of sound, but it choked off in a gasp as Gladiolus slipped his hand up Ignis’s arm, twisting on the bench until they were face to face.

‘Wanna show me again?’ Gladiolus said, teasingly. ‘Swear I’ll pay attention this time.’

Ignis had little faith that Gladiolus would be true to his word — but he supposed the point had never been to get him to go over the section again, it had been to get him close. Now that Ignis  _ was _ in such close proximity, there was hardly any doubt as to what Gladiolus intended to do about it.

True to his suspicions, Gladiolus slipped his other arm around Ignis’s waist, bringing his hand to Ignis’s cheek. Gently, Gladiolus tugged him downwards until their lips met.

This kiss wasn’t brandy-soaked; there was nothing this time to cloud Ignis’s thoughts. Instead, his head was clear and lucid as he found himself quite inexplicably slipping his arms around Gladiolus’s shoulders.

He liked it — much more than he cared to admit. He liked it even more when Gladiolus’s mouth parted and his tongue darted out, gently brushing Ignis’s bottom lip. He was so surprised he almost didn’t respond in turn, but then he opened his mouth and let Gladiolus tongue move in and seek out his own.

It was… vulgar. The sort of crude, tasteless behaviour that was never talked about outside of closed doors. Yet it was enough to have a rather curious sensation coursing through Ignis, between his legs, and when a moan bubbled up from his throat he let it ring out entirely unrestrained.

He felt ashamed almost immediately; he pulled back, slipping his arms free and looking at Gladiolus in surprise, but the young man only stared up at him with a dazed look on his face, his chest heaving.

‘This is highly inappropriate,’ Ignis said sharply.

‘Yeah,’ Gladiolus said, breaking eye contact. ‘Guess it is.’

When his tongue darted out to wet his lips, it was as though all bets were off — Ignis wrapped his arms around Gladiolus’s shoulders once more and pulled him into another kiss.

That…  _ feeling _ was back, Ignis found, as he delved his hands into Gladiolus’s hair where it was loosely tied behind his head. This time, Gladiolus was the one to groan — a low, rumbling sound, full of need — and it was all Ignis could do to maintain any sort of semblance of composure.

Outside, brisk footsteps strode down the hall, the hollow sound cutting through the stillness of the room. As though struck by lightning, Ignis yanked away from Gladiolus and stumbled towards the window, feigning great interest in the view.

The footsteps moved past the door and down the hall, retreating until the sound died off altogether.

‘It’s okay,’ Gladiolus said. There was laughter in his voice — wry amusement. ‘Coast’s clear.’

Ignis very much felt, as he turned to face Gladiolus, like informing him that the coast very well  _ wasn’t _ clear when they had come so close to being caught. He wished he could be angry at the other man, but when he saw the warmth under the tan of his cheeks, the way his eyes were still glassy with desire, Ignis couldn’t bring himself to rebuke him.

‘You mustn’t get used to this,’ Ignis pronounced, marching forwards. ‘It wouldn’t be proper.’

Gladiolus shook his head.

‘And I’m leaving in two weeks,’ he replied.

Ignis swallowed, his throat thick. With each stride toward Gladiolus, there was an insatiable burning in his chest, as though his heart saw fit to try to burst from it.

‘You’ll take over the manor someday,’ Ignis said, ‘and I’m your sister’s tutor.’

He was in front of Gladiolus now, where Gladiolus had swivelled to face him on the bench. The young man’s eyes seemed to burn, a hint of a smirk curving the corners of his lips.

‘Think of the  _ scandal,’ _ Gladiolus said. ‘What  _ ever  _ would people say?’

A scowl had begun to darken Ignis’s features when he realised that Gladiolus was teasing him. With a disgruntled sigh, he shook his head, but then Gladiolus gently caught his wrist and pulled him closer, looking up at him where he stood.

‘It’s unseemly,’ Ignis said, his voice a hush.

Gladiolus gave an earnest nod, even as he moved his hands to sit on Ignis’s hips.

‘Sordid,’ he added. ‘Positively tawdry. Now, will you kiss me already?’

To speak in such a candid manner — so forward, so shameless — had Ignis gasping in surprise. Gladiolus’s hands were irresistibly warm as they slipped beneath his waistcoat, the heat of them seeping through his shirt.

Ignis didn’t have to stoop very far; Gladiolus was unusually tall, likely still to grow. As their lips met again, Ignis found himself in a daydream in which Gladiolus was pushing him back on the sofa, moving to straddle him.

His mouth betrayed his base desires — it moved wantonly, as if by its own volition, and when Gladiolus’s tongue swept between his lips once more, Ignis moved his own to meet it.

It was exquisite: like the purest feeling of joy, tempered with a sort of agony that Ignis couldn’t quite have explained if pressed. These kisses were scarce enough for him any more, and that feeling still very much endured, in the pit of his abdomen and between his legs. Their mouths were making terribly vulgar sounds, wet and hungry, and over his own laboured breathing Ignis could hear Gladiolus’s, panting out in the rare moments that their lips weren’t connected.

All at once it was too much — Ignis broke away, tottering backwards, and he had to blunder over to the sofa to save himself from falling and making a fool of himself. Shaking, unsteady, he lowered himself into the corner of it, a hand braced on the arm rest, and fought in vain to get his breathing under control.

Gladiolus rose to his feet — a flash of a mental image: Gladiolus pinning him between his thighs on this very sofa, all but tearing at the buttons of his shirt — but he turned away, toward the door, his back to Ignis.

Gladiolus’s shoulders rose and fall with each heavy breath he took. It was a long while before he turned around to face Ignis again.

‘Thank you for the lesson, Master Scientia,’ Gladiolus said, his tone uncharacteristically formal. ‘I hope I might have the pleasure of another tomorrow, at the same time.’

He was acting… odd. Strained. Ignis was still so lost in his own little world that he didn’t immediately realise that Gladiolus might be hinting at something more — a  _ pleasure _ of a different kind entirely.

Ignis cleared his throat, masking the sound delicately with his hand, and once he was sure his voice wouldn’t betray him, he nodded.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Good evening, Master Amicitia.’

He waited until Gladiolus was gone, the door having long since been closed behind Gladiolus, before sinking into his seat on the sofa. Without Gladiolus here to see him he allowed himself to come undone, a delirious sort of laugh tumbling from his lips. He was trembling so badly he didn’t trust his feet to support him should he have attempted to stand up.

* * *

He took a long walk about the manor grounds that evening, relishing the warmth of the summer. Without a companion at his side, he was free to dwell on his own thoughts — to move at a leisurely pace and allow a lazy smile to cross his lips as his memories turned to Gladiolus’s touch.

He wanted dearly to riddle out what this all meant. Was he simply a diversion for Gladiolus, a means of letting out the frustrations typical of a young man, as yet unmarried? Or was there something else, something that kept driving Gladiolus back to him.

They had hated each other, not all that long ago. Ignis could still clearly remember, with a knot of embarrassment in his stomach, how he had mistaken Gladiolus for one of the staff mere moments after his arrival.

When Ignis tried to maintain a lateral head, to use logic and reasoning to come to understand it, he couldn’t seem to come to any sort of a satisfactory answer. This was a predicament, it seemed, that only his body knew how to solve — and all it wanted was more.

He made another circuit of the manor grounds in a bid to clear his head, as though his less proper thoughts might somehow be written in indelible ink across his skin for all to see. On his way back he paused to collect himself, casting a glance up at the manor.

It was bright enough out to see by, although the light was on in Mr. Amicitia’s study. He wondered, guiltily, what the lord of the manor would think if he had known what had gone under his roof. He wouldn’t approve, at the very least. That much was assured.

Perhaps it was best if he didn’t find out.

Ignis took a step toward the manor, halting suddenly as movement draw his eyes upwards; there was a shadow in one of the upstairs windows, and he realised with a little rush of excitement that it was Gladiolus’s room. The young man stood at the window, the voile pulled across.

Even from this distance, Ignis could see the faint smile Gladiolus wore on his lips; as he set off once more toward the house, Ignis felt it mirrored on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/mooglemallow)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm typing up the last chapter of this (chapter 14) as we speak. Would people prefer that I stick to a roughly weekly posting schedule for the next five chapters, or are y'all eager for more??? Lemme know in the comments!

In all Ignis’s months at Gardenia Hall, it had been Iris whose inattention had caused the dissolution of many a lesson between them. Now, it was Ignis who was distracted — who was given to drifting off into a daydream at a moment’s notice, only to be startled to alertness by Iris’s voice several minutes later.

If anything should have been a warning against seeking out anything but a  _ professional _ relationship with Gladiolus, it would have been this; yet Ignis seemed entirely powerless to obey his better judgement.

The morning dragged on, and the afternoon lessons seemed to be abject torture. Ignis wanted nothing more than to dismiss Iris, to allow her to run about in the grass with the kitten at her heels, but he managed to restrain himself. By the time the lessons finally drew to a close he was eager to be off, yet he still had to get through supper first.

He knew his behaviour was entirely undignified; he was acting like the heroine in some novel, rushing away to be ravaged by her handsome yet forbidden suitor. If he was in his right mind, he might have had Crowe go to Gladiolus in his stead and inform him that he was unable to attend their piano lesson this evening.

He was not, however, in his right mind — and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Ignis had never thought much about his appearance. He supposed, in some ways, that he was not entirely plain; yet whatever it was that Gladiolus saw in him, he wasn’t quite sure. For the first time, he took stock of himself in his reflection as he readied himself in his room. His spectacles lent him a rather bookish look, but there was little he could do about that. His hair, kept only a few inches long, hung glossy and flat on his head, just short of falling into his eyes.

His attire was certainly nothing special: prim and fit-for-purpose. After some careful consideration, he removed his waistcoat and opted to wear only his shirt, still buttoned up to the top yet perhaps somewhat more casual than his typical garb.

When it seemed perhaps that enough time had passed to disguise his overeagerness, he left his room and made his way downstairs.

Gladiolus wasn’t at the table when he ventured into the dining room; nor was Mr. Amicitia himself, although that was hardly a rare occurrence when the lord of the manor so often dined alone in his study. It didn’t seem cause for concern until Ignis had made his way to the music room to wait for Gladiolus, only to find it empty.

He waited, of course — waited until his nerves prompted him to pace the length of the room, and waited even longer still. He couldn’t help but worry that Gladiolus’s absence, along with that of Mr. Amicitia, was a sign that something had gone wrong. Perhaps Gladiolus’s father had found out about them after all.

Downhearted and ill at ease, Ignis left an hour after their agreed meeting time and returned to his room, wondering if something truly  _ had _ happened, or if Gladiolus had simply changed his mind.

* * *

The book was scarcely enough to keep Ignis’s attention. It was one he had read countless times — an old favourite, well-thumbed even before it came into his possession — and although it seldom failed to keep him enthralled, somehow the tale of a young orphan turning to a colourful life of picking pockets did little to keep his thoughts from wandering.

At times, his mind drifted to the kisses in the music room, when he had felt so hot and flustered he could hardly catch his breath; in equal turns it seemed content to fabricate scenarios where Gladiolus was laughing at him at this very moment, telling Crowe of how gullible he’d been.

Ignis wanted to be angry with Gladiolus; wanted to hate the young man for standing him up. Yet there was still a glimmer of hope that there was an innocent reason for Gladiolus’s absence, and Ignis found himself clinging to it even as the sun began to set.

He set his book aside with a sigh. Reading was futile at this point; perhaps he had best turn in.

The knock came as he was working open the topmost buttons of his shirt. It was a heavy rap, forceful but not quite urgent. He knew even before he opened the door that it wasn’t one of the servants.

Still, the sight of Gladiolus on his doorstep took his breath away — and if there’d been any air left in his lungs it would have been quite soundly knocked from him as the young man stepped forward, crossing the threshold without a word, and lifted his hands to cup Ignis’s jaw.

The kiss caught Ignis off-guard, before he could even think to voice his displeasure over being left waiting. He found that as Gladiolus’s lips moved heatedly against his own, the slight rasp of stubble burning his skin, he couldn’t bring himself to protest.

It seemed good sense had fled Gladiolus entirely, for him to be so brazen in his affections; yet there was enough left in Ignis, at least, to guide Gladiolus in and away from the doorway, nudging the door shut behind him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gladiolus said, breaking from Ignis’s lips. ‘My father kept me longer than expected, and he had me ride with him into town. I couldn’t get away.’

Ignis didn’t air his worries — he didn’t need to. He merely nodded his head and pressed a hand flat to Gladiolus’s chest.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

Slowly, Gladiolus walked Ignis walk towards the bed; it occured to Ignis, with a little thrill of excitement, that Gladiolus meant to escalate matters. When Ignis’s calves hit the edge of the bed frame, however, Gladiolus merely gestured for him to sit, while taking a seat beside him.

‘He’ll be gone next week,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Summoned to Insomnia for business. He’s leaving me in charge until he returns.’

Slowly, Ignis lowered himself onto the mattress. At his side, Gladiolus was looking down at his lap, where his hands knotted and fidgeted together anxiously. Ignis couldn’t help but wonder if there were more that Gladiolus wasn’t saying.

‘I thought…’ Gladiolus began, clearing his throat gruffly. ‘We could give Iris a break from lessons. Maybe make the most of the pleasant weather, while it lasts.’

In spite of himself, Ignis smiled. It did sound rather pleasant, if a little unlikely. The lord of the manor maybe be leaving, but Ms. Elshett was still in attendance and Ignis knew as well as any that she ruled with an iron fist. Still, he was inclined to entertain the notion.

‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked, angling himself towards Gladiolus.

‘Well,’ Gladiolus said. ‘In the mornings, we could bring Iris to the lake. Then we could have the rest of the day to ourselves…’

Ignis smirked; Gladiolus looked up at him, a hand idly finding its way onto his knee.

‘To do what, exactly?’ Ignis said. He affected the tone of an amused teacher, listening to his student’s tall tales, yet he couldn’t ignore the thrill that went through him as Gladiolus’s fingertips ghosted up the inside of his thigh.

‘Piano lessons,’ Gladiolus said idly. ‘Walking the grounds. Whatever you please.’

His fingers stopped short, where the press of Ignis’s thighs denied him further access; it was all Ignis could do not to part them.

‘Whatever I please?’ Ignis echoed, the hoarseness of his voice betraying his desire. ‘And if I wish to do nothing at all?’

It was a remarkable transformation — Gladiolus seemed to go cold all of a sudden, and his hand slipped free of Ignis’s leg as he edged a polite distance away.

‘If that’s what you want,’ he said.

Perhaps Ignis might have teased, like the heroine in some racy romance novel. Perhaps he might have had Gladiolus work for his affections rather than merely give them up so wantonly. Ignis might even have argued that it would be better this way, if Gladiolus kept his distance, yet every fibre within him screamed to the contrary.

Feeling impossibly bold, he gently took hold of Gladiolus’s forearm where his sleeve was rolled to the elbow. Slowly, he traced his fingertips down the tanned expanse of his arm, down along the inside of his wrist, and kept going until he felt the rasp of calloused skin beneath his touch. Gladiolus’s hand was warm and inviting, heavy and strong and reassuring.

‘And what if it isn’t?’ Ignis murmured. ‘What if I want something else?’

He could feel Gladiolus’s gaze burning into him even before he lifted his own to meet it; could see desire in those amber eyes, and wondered if his own burned quite so fiercely. Certainly, Ignis could think of nothing — no  _ one _ — he had wanted quite so dearly, so desperately, in all his life.

Strong fingers laced through his, the rough pad of Gladiolus’s thumb brushing gently over the back of his hand. It occurred to Ignis to wonder why Gladiolus hadn’t taken him yet, hadn’t given in to his desires, when it dawned on him that Gladiolus was waiting for  _ him _ to make the move.

Ignis’s heart felt fit to burst from him where it pounded somewhere near his throat; the effect only strengthened as he leaned closer, lifting his right hand to cup Gladiolus’s jaw.

It began slowly — not urgent, as Ignis might have expected. There was something peaceful about this, even as Gladiolus moved to work open the remaining buttons of Ignis’s shirt. With each button, however, and as Gladiolus ventured further downward, Ignis could feel need course through him until he was trembling so badly he could barely sit still.

He occupied shaking hands with the buttons of Gladiolus’s shirt, his eyes drinking in the sight as more and more olive skin was exposed.

How many times had Gladiolus wandered in from his toils in the garden, his torso laid bare for all to see? How many times had Ignis hurriedly averted his glance, as though the very sight was scandalous? In all those times, Ignis had never thought to look at Gladiolus — to truly look at him, unabashed. If he had, he might have noticed the handful of dark freckles adorning Gladiolus’s chest, scarcely visible against the tan of his skin though there nonetheless.

He traced a fingertip down over those freckles and watched Gladiolus shiver beneath his touch; before he knew it, Gladiolus was leaning forward and catching him in a kiss, his mouth hot and needy.

It was so easy to get swept away, as if by the undertow — and even if Ignis’s better nature told him to show some self-restraint, he was a slave to his desire. When Gladiolus splayed a hand out flat against his chest and gently pushed, Ignis allowed himself to sprawl back on the bed. He propped his head up to watch as Gladiolus hurriedly slipped his shirt from his shoulders and began working open the fastenings of his breeches.

When Gladiolus paused and glanced up from his task, there was an intensity in his eyes that made Ignis’s stomach roil. Perhaps there was worry there — doubt. Ignis had been relying upon Gladiolus to be the confident one, the certain one.

Gladiolus’s deft fingers let up from the fastenings before they were all the way open; carefully, he crawled onto the bed and stretched out alongside Ignis, as much as the single mattress would allow for his frame. His touch was tender as he thumbed across Ignis’s bottom lip, although his gaze was still intense.

‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ he murmured.

Ignis felt his head reel. A month ago, a  _ week _ ago, he was certain he would have said no. Now, it was all he could think about — all he wanted. To have Gladiolus burst into his room so wantonly, so desperately, only to end things here? It was unimaginable.

He didn’t have to think it over for long. He knew the answer in the very core of him before the thought ever materialised in his head.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. Then, more clearly: ‘Yes. I want this.  _ Please.’ _

With that, the uncertainty in Gladiolus evaporated. His hand found Ignis’s waist, slipping beneath the opening of his shirt and setting Ignis shivering even though his touch was impossibly hot.

Once more, their lips found each other; Ignis let out a little moan of need as Gladiolus’s tongue snaked into his mouth, calloused, gentle fingers dipping beneath the waist of his trousers in turn.

The window was open to let in the breeze; as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the last vestiges of pink and gold threading through the sky, Ignis could hear the birds at their evening song. It sounded triumphant: joyous. It rang out in chorus with the thrumming of his heart as his body trembled, melting beneath his lover’s touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)
> 
> (Note: I've changed my twitter handle _again_ because I'm indecisive as hell; I've also changed my ao3 name to keep my tumblr and twitter consistent.)


	10. Chapter 10

They slipped into something of a rhythm over the coming days. It was unconventional, perhaps, but it suited them both — and as long as they kept their affair a secret, there seemed little harm in carrying on as they had been.

Gladiolus, however, was relentless: incorrigible, even. As soon as everyone’s back was turned, he was at Ignis’s throat, pressing kisses into his skin with dizzying intensity.

It was a wonder they hadn’t been caught yet.

Ignis could pretend all he liked that he didn’t approve, but he was secretly pleased to be lavished with such ferocious affection. Where Gladiolus had always seemed a terse, ill-mannered young man, he became a different person entirely when they were alone.

It was shaping up to be another unbearably hot day; Ignis could scarcely drag himself from bed, but he knew that Iris was waiting. Mr. Amicitia had left early that morning, before dawn, and it hadn’t been long before Gladiolus had slipped up to Ignis’s room, taking up almost the entirety of the spindly little bed.

They had merely lain together, sharing lazy, sleepy kisses in the dim pre-dawn, but it had been enough to set Ignis’s heart thudding merrily within his chest.

He couldn’t help but smile fondly now as he looked down at Gladiolus’s sleeping figure beside him. It seemed a pity to wake him, but wake him Ignis must; gently, he leaned close and pressed a kiss to the curve of Gladiolus’s neck — and another, and another, until finally the young man stirred with a reluctant groan.

‘S’it morning?’ he grumbled.

His words roused a chuckle from Ignis, who indulged in a fleeting whim to run his hand down Gladiolus’s back, knotting his fingers gently into the creased cotton of his shirt.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Ignis murmured. ‘Let’s wash up. We shouldn’t keep your sister waiting.’

There was water waiting by the door as always, and Ignis knew that a similar bowl was likely waiting upstairs outside Gladiolus’s room. Gladiolus, however, seemed content to stretch out in the bed, Ignis’s absence having afforded him some more space.

‘You’re getting some colour into your skin,’ Gladiolus said thoughtfully, from where he lay lazily on his side. ‘Didn’t think city boys could tan.’

Ignis scoffed, although he knew the teasing was good-natured. Apart from a few small jibes at one another, their relationship had been decidedly conflict-free.

‘There are lots of things we  _ city boys _ can do that you’d never imagine,’ he said.

Turning his back to Gladiolus, he slipped his shirt from his shoulders and set it neatly aside. He dipped a washcloth into one of the bowls of water, sweeping it over his skin; the water was tepid, a welcome reprieve from the heat.

It wasn’t long before he heard the bed creak beneath Gladiolus’s weight, the floorboards protesting as he set his feet down on them. With a few strides, Gladiolus was behind him, hands fitting carefully on his hips as his mouth found Ignis’s neck and worked a steady path upwards.

‘Yeah?’ Gladiolus said, his lips brushing Ignis’s ear as he spoke. ‘Like what?’

If Ignis didn’t know that Iris was waiting for them at the breakfast table, he might happily have taken the cue for intimacy — he knew that Gladiolus certainly had only one thing on his mind. This time, however, he merely smirked and nudged Gladiolus gently away, shaking his head.

‘Shame you’ll never find out,’ he said.

It was a miracle that they made it downstairs at all, although if the half-finished dishes at Iris’s place setting were any indication, they’d dawdled long enough. The heat — and being kept waiting — had left her ill-tempered, and Ignis and Gladiolus seemed to silently agree that a rushed meal was wisest, lest they linger and worsen her mood.

She brightened up once out in the fresh air, at least, and she was soon skipping along ahead of them, the kitten — growing bigger and rowdier every day — scampering close behind.

‘She loves Father,’ Gladiolus said quietly as he and Ignis trailed some distance to the rear. ‘But she’s different when he’s not around. He can be a little hard on her sometimes — I think he doesn’t know how to deal with a little girl who’s turning into a woman before his eyes.’

Ignis hummed thoughtfully. He supposed Gladiolus had a point, now that he considered it; where Iris was a little madam most of the time, she seemed to exhibit a candid sort of girlishness while Gladiolus was left in charge. It was as though her brother were the one to encourage her to hold on to these carefree childish days, for as long as they might endure.

‘She’s certainly her own person,’ Ignis mused. ‘I pity anyone who should find themselves in the position to be her suitor. Between your father and her own strong will, I doubt anyone would pass muster.’

Gladiolus gave a bark of laughter; when Ignis glance up at him, he had his hand at the nape of his neck while he shook his head wryly.

‘It’s not Father her  _ suitors _ need to worry about.’

It wasn’t a long walk, but the trip to the lake took them enough out of view of the manor that Ignis felt he could breathe a little more easily. Mr. Amicitia was gone, yes, but it seemed prudent to keep their trysts out of the public eye where possible.

Ahead of them, Iris was already splashing about at the water’s edge, her stockings discarded and skirts pulled up to her knees. Iggy had retreated to a safe distance and watched with one sleepy eye prised open where he lay on his side in the grass.

‘At this rate, she’ll be as brown as you before the summer is over,’ Ignis said with a grin.

‘She’s lucky she doesn’t burn like Father,’ Gladiolus said fondly. ‘The one time she managed to drag him out to the water at the Vesperpool, his skin was peeling for weeks.’

They picked a spot on the grass not far from the water’s edge, the better to keep an eye on Iris. It hadn’t rained recently; the ground was dry, perfect to sit on.

‘Does he always come with you?’ Ignis asked. ‘To the Vesperpool? He doesn’t seem the sort for holidays in the sun.’

Gladiolus shook his head. Silently, he played with a stray blade of grass, thumbing over the seeds at the head.

‘Not so much these days,’ he said. ‘He’s… withdrawn. He rarely leaves his study without good reason. Anyway, Iris doesn’t even want to go to the Vesperpool this year, so this is sort of… a holiday in lieu.’

Ignis felt his brow furrow. Silently, he watched Iris stoop and reach out to pick something up from the shore. She dipped the very hem of her skirt in the water in the process; Ms. Elshett would have a thing or two to say about that.

‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘She seemed so excited about it when she mentioned it.’

There was a gruff cough from Gladiolus; for a moment, he didn’t respond.

‘Said there was no point,’ he replied. ‘With me being gone.’

Four words were enough to dismantle everything — this sweet, innocent delusion that the summer might never have to end.

It wasn’t that Ignis had forgotten — how could he, given how heavily it hung over them both? — but he had certainly learned to live in ignorance. In a week Gladiolus would leave, and there was no guarantee that they would see each other again.

‘Well then,’ Ignis said briskly. He reached over and took Gladiolus’s hand, holding it in the grass between them. ‘We’ll just have to make the most of this week, won’t we?’

* * *

With Iris and Iggy running rampant through the grounds that afternoon, Ignis and Gladiolus had been free to retreat to the music room. There was little point in trying to concentrate on lessons in this heat; Gladiolus played his fingers idly over the keys, while Ignis sat on the sofa nearby, glancing up from his book from time to time to watch his student at work.

When the playing stopped, Ignis didn’t notice the cessation of music right away; it was only when Gladiolus’s broad figure stood in front of him, towering over him, that he glanced up from the pages.

Gladiolus was silent; intent. A question rose to Ignis’s tongue, but Gladiolus silenced it with a touch of a thumb to Ignis’s bottom lip. It was the gentlest touch, scarcely there, but it made Ignis shiver and close his eyes. When he opened them once more, Gladiolus was leaning over him, resting his weight against the arm of the chair.

‘Nobody will come for us until supper,’ Gladiolus murmured, his words have with intent. ‘Why don’t you put your book aside for a while?’

Ignis sighed and did as suggested; he had scarcely placed the book down when Gladiolus reached out and slipped his spectacles from his face, carefully setting them aside. A moment later his hands were cupping Ignis’s jaw, tilting it up the better to kiss him.

That familiar pang of desire went through Ignis’s core, and he could barely keep from squirming where he sat. Somewhere in all of this, Ignis found himself stretching out along the sofa, Gladiolus astride him. He heard the thud of his novel hitting the floor, but whatever concern he felt was momentary and fleeting, promptly swept to the recesses of his mind by Gladiolus’s lips.

This was more urgent than that night they had spent together, in Ignis’s room; he could feel the weight of their desire over the past days, of all the stolen kisses. They had kept on this side of control so many times, stopping just short of giving in to their lust; this time, he knew it was different.

Even as Gladiolus began tugging at the buttons of his shirt, Ignis found himself slipping his hands around the other man, letting them roam where they pleased.

Beneath them, the sofa groaned under their combined weight as Gladiolus sat up and hurried to get his shirt undone. As his skin was revealed, bit by bit, Ignis slipped his hand under the fabric of the shirt and let his fingertips brush across Gladiolus’s toned torso.

The kisses didn’t let up for long; Gladiolus had barely struggled out of his shirt before he was leaning down once more, his stubble burning Ignis’s skin as their lips met again and again.

The desire was overwhelming now — Ignis felt driven by it, mindlessly, a slave to the heat coursing through his veins and pulsing between his thighs. His thoughts were a blur as he let Gladiolus tilt his head back, and as soon as his throat was exposed a flurry of kisses was pressed there, roaming down and down, Gladiolus’s hands navigating the way.

All it took was one brush of Gladiolus’s hand, one precise touch between his legs, to set Ignis leaning back and moaning, wanton and dizzy and desperate.

Somewhere around Ignis’s abdomen, where Gladiolus’s face was buried against the crumpled fabric of his shirt, there sounded out an amused chuckle. After a pause, Gladiolus sat up, his face and neck prickling red with heat, and touched a slow, gentle kiss to Ignis’s lips.

‘Maybe we should take a break,’ Gladiolus suggested, his lips still twisted into a wry smile. ‘Just for a little while.’

Where Ignis lay, chest heaving and clothes in disarray, he could do little more than nod in agreement.

Long after they had straightened themselves out, while they sat quietly beside one another, Ignis could still feel it burning within — a fire that simply would not be quenched, not until his needs were sated. It was with trembling hands that he reached down to the floor and picked up his book, laying it carefully on his lap.

It seemed to him that as Gladiolus rose from his seat, his movements were deliberate: restrained. As though he were fighting every part of his nature not to turn and tear at Ignis’s clothes once more. He was surprisingly sober as he reached out a hand to Ignis.

‘Let’s take a walk,’ Gladiolus said. ‘It’s cooler now. Should be nice out.’

They walked through the house in silence, little of their demeanour betraying the proceedings of the past few minutes as they passed staff by, tipping their heads politely. Still, to Ignis he was sure that all it would take was one stray glance, one unguarded smile, to have their secret spilling forth for all to see.

True to Gladiolus’s word, at least, the heat had let up over the past few hours. It still clung to their skin, hot and humid, but it was less dizzying now — and the breeze that trickled through the gardens was deliciously cool, faint but refreshing.

‘I’m countin’ on Iris to look after the gardens while I’m gone,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Or at least convince Father to hire somebody. Hate to come back and find the place in ruin.’

Ignis brought a hand to his mouth and coughed into his fist. For all they had been trying to live as though there were no deadline looming over them, their topic of conversation seemed to turn near-constantly to Gladiolus’s imminent departure. Ignis’s only wish was that this — what they had together — had come sooner. Perhaps then, everything might have been different.

‘She won’t let that happen,’ Ignis said quietly. ‘She’s as proud of Gardenia Hall as you are.’

Their stroll brought them along the walkways lined by shrubs filled with fragrant white flowers; already Ignis could see that they were in need of some upkeep from Gladiolus’s month away.

As though the young man’s thoughts had followed the same path, Gladiolus paused by one of the bushes and stooped, slipping something from his pocket. Ignis watched with curious amusement as Gladiolus used a small pocket knife to clip one of the flowers from the shrub. He held it gently in the palm of his hand as he rose once more to his feet, as though afraid he might crush it between his fingers.

‘Have you heard of the language of flowers?’ Gladiolus asked.

Ignis scoffed. He had — although its nuance was somewhat lost on him — but it seemed a strange turn of phrase to come from Gladiolus’s mouth.

‘Of course,’ Ignis said. ‘Conveying hidden meanings through flowers, to say what mustn’t be uttered aloud.’

Gladiolus gave a nod.

‘My mother was taken with it,’ he said. ‘Used to send Father arrangements that he’d spend weeks riddling over. Always refused to tell him what they meant, in hopes that he’d figure it out himself.’

‘Did he?’ Ignis asked. ‘Riddle out what they meant?’

Gladiolus shook his head. He wore a smirk, his glance distant as though he were lost in reverie.

‘Whole thing was lost on him,’ he replied. ‘My father is a practical man — my mother was the romantic. They were always so different, but I think that was what made them good together.’

For a time he stared off across the grounds. Ignis was reluctant to disturb him; whatever memory was playing in his head, it seemed to be a pleasant one. After a moment, Gladiolus turned to him and lifted his hand, the beautiful, potent bloom still cradled in his palm.

‘The white petals of the gardenia are a symbol of purity and sincerity,’ Gladiolus said. ‘But there’s another meaning behind it.’

Gently, as though handling the most precious of cargo, he pressed the flower into Ignis’s hand. This close, the scent of it was intoxicating, brought out by the heat of the summer.

Ignis looked down at the bloom in his hand, as if its shape and colour might somehow relinquish its meaning to him. He was quite at a loss — perhaps, like Gladiolus’s father, he was more of a pragmatist.

‘What does it mean?’ Ignis asked.

Gladiolus was staring at him intently; it was a look he’d seen often over the past week or so, and it set Ignis’s stomach twisting and leaping pleasantly. It was a look that so often preceded a stolen kiss — or more — although this time Gladiolus merely took Ignis’s free hand and lifted it, touching his lips to Ignis’s fingers.

‘Maybe you’ll riddle it out someday,’ he said. He wore a smirk as he let Ignis’s hand drop and turned away, following the winding pathway once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic now has a cover! See it here on [chapter 1](archiveofourown.org/works/13067388/chapters/29891448)!

‘Have you figured it out yet?’

Ignis glanced up from his book — not that he’d been reading for the past few minutes, thumbing the corners of the pages as he had been while staring off into the middle-distance.

The music room had come to be a sort of refuge for them, where they were unlikely to be disturbed. Although they had somehow avoided discovery thus far, it seemed to be something of an unspoken secret among the residents of Gardenia Hall. When the pair disappeared together for long stretches at a time, the staff were like to share knowing glances with one another — and even Ms. Elshett seemed content to turn a blind eye, provided it didn’t disrupt the delicate rhythm of the manor.

‘Figured what out?’ he asked.

Gladiolus leaned across, brushing a strand of hair out of Ignis’s eyes, and that mere contact was enough to send shivers arcing through Ignis’s spine.

‘The gardenia,’ Gladiolus murmured. He traced his fingertip down Ignis’s cheek and across his lip. ‘What it means.’

Wordlessly, Ignis shook his head — although it hadn’t been for want of trying. He’d dipped into the manor’s hidden treasure trove of books on botany, clearly the late Mrs. Amicitia’s purview, but he had found little of use. 

Gladiolus took hold of the book and set it gently aside, that he could take Ignis’s hand. At first he pressed them together, palm to palm — his fingers, calloused and sun-kissed, dwarfed Ignis’s — then he interlaced them, closing his eyes as he touched his lips to Ignis’s knuckles.

‘Do you want me to tell you?’ Gladiolus asked, wetting his lips.

Ignis was never one to back down from a challenge, particularly one of an intellectual pursuit, but he feared that he was no closer to uncovering the gardenia’s hidden meaning. Five days of freedom they’d had together: five glorious days that seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. Tomorrow, Gladiolus would leave for the war — taking the meaning of the flower with him.

‘Tell me,’ Ignis murmured. ‘I want to hear it from you.’

Gladiolus’s thumb brushed over the back of Ignis’s hand rhythmically, absently. He seemed uncharacteristically coy as he met Ignis’s eye.

‘The language of flowers is all about sending messages you’d never say out loud,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Aconite for treachery; a yellow rose for friendship. Sometimes the arrangement a flower is presented with can change the connotations.’

He let go of Ignis’s hand and stood up, moving to the window. Ignis had no doubt his glance had turned to the gardenias and their lovely white blooms, glowing in the evening sun.

‘The gardenia symbolises a secret love,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Something hidden, but pure.’

Ignis thought of the gardenia blossom he’d pressed upstairs, weighted down on his desk by some of his heavier volumes. Oh how he’d puzzled over the meaning of the flower, and yet some compulsion had made him preserve it, if only because it had been Gladiolus who had presented it so tenderly to him.

_ A secret love. _ Not lust, not desire, not wanting:  _ love. _

Ignis felt as though his every sense were alive, every inch of his skin prickling with awareness. Dreamily, he pushed himself up from the sofa and moved to the window, stopping just behind Gladiolus. With a tentative hand he reached out, placing it in the small of Gladiolus’s back; as if broken from a spell, his lover turned and glanced at him, a smile on his lips.

‘Maybe while I’m away,’ Gladiolus said, ‘you’ll look out at the gardenias and think of me.’

In the stillness of the music room, it seemed that the world had ceased to exist beyond these walls. Ignis felt he could have happily lost himself in the amber of Gladiolus’s eyes, if it only meant this moment never had to end.

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, Ignis,’ Gladiolus murmured. ‘But when you look at them, you’ll know I’m thinking of you.’

There was scarcely any distance between them, and Ignis bridged it with a single stride, slipping his hand up to sit in the curve of Gladiolus’s neck. He wondered if he should say something — some grand profession of affection. Nothing could hope to convey the contents of his heart; everything paled in the shadow of Gladiolus’s gesture.

He let his words fall away, using his lips to show Gladiolus instead.

A calm fell over them as the kiss endured: a sort of peaceful acceptance. Whatever the coming years brought, as Gladiolus ventured to far-flung shores to fight for king and country, they would always have  _ this. _

It was with some reluctance that Ignis broke from the embrace, although Gladiolus soon took his hand and tugged it, stepping towards the door. There was little need for words — Ignis followed silently, holding tight to his lover’s hand, and together they traipsed through the halls of the house.

The bustle of the manor would all be downstairs in the kitchens; soon would be supper, and when the two young men failed to make an appearance, they would not be sought out. The evening was theirs to spend as they pleased.

Gladiolus’s room was, Ignis mused, as he would have expected. The few personal effects scattered about on the desk, on the shelf, on the nightstand were clearly of some importance: a vase of flowers picked from the greenhouse; a model train, gathering dust. On the wall was a portrait of woman in ferrotype, and although the monochrome image concealed the colours of the scene, Ignis was certain that she shared the same golden eyes as Gladiolus and Iris.

He didn’t have much time to study it as Gladiolus pressed the door closed, turning the key in the lock.

Now that they were here, it seemed the time for words had passed — it was with eyes turned rapt toward Gladiolus that Ignis allowed himself to be led across the room, to the bed neatly made by the window.

The bedspread was a gardenia motif in blue on white, as though he couldn’t escape the flower even here as he sat on its surface. Yet it occurred to Ignis, since Gladiolus’s last words, that he didn’t  _ want _ to escape it; that being surrounded by the symbol of Gladiolus’s affection would be of comfort in the uncertainty to come.

They undressed each other slowly, diligently, taking all the time in the world. With their shirts shed, Gladiolus laid Ignis back on the bed and climbed to lean over him, mouthing kisses into Ignis’s skin where it burned beneath his touch.

It was a painful sort of agony — beautiful, poignant — to hold Gladiolus, to make love to him, and to know this may be the last time. Each kiss lingered until it felt Ignis’s lungs might burst for want of air, only for more kisses to follow. There was a desperation in each of them, as though neither would be content until they drank the other in, until they were each devoured heart and soul.

* * *

In the balmy, dreamlike hours that followed, they lay together and held one another in silence, Ignis’s head nestled against Gladiolus’s shoulder. Gladiolus’s touch was gentle as he stroked fingertips idly up Ignis’s arm. From time to time he would turn and press a kiss to the crown of Ignis’s head.

‘Will you write?’ Ignis murmured. He twisted to look up at Gladiolus. ‘While you’re away?’

Wordlessly, Gladiolus nodded; another kiss was placed upon Ignis, this time on his forehead, and the room fell to silence once more.

Gladiolus was leaving tomorrow.  _ Tomorrow. _ It seemed there truly wasn’t enough time in the world.

Ignis gave a weary sigh and turned, curling into Gladiolus’s chest. He didn’t mind the musk of sweat, the scent of their intimacy emblazoned across his lover’s skin — rather, he closed his eyes and breathed it in, knowing full well it may be his last chance.

‘I wish I could ask you not to go,’ he murmured, before placing a kiss against Gladiolus’s skin.

He felt Gladiolus’s chest steadily rise and fall; heard the slight intake of breath. After a beat, Gladiolus’s arms wrapped tightly around him as if they might never let go.

‘If only it were that simple.’

Ignis had heard of men, young and old, who had fled the conscription. He knew little of those who had successfully made it away, but he’d heard the odd tale of those who were caught and summarily dragged back to Insomnia. It was treason of the highest order — a capital offence.

It was simply too much; Ignis couldn’t bear to think about it any longer. Twisting in Gladiolus’s embrace, he pushed himself up and mouthed a kiss against his lover’s jaw, then another into the corner of his mouth, and soon Gladiolus’s lips were returning the affection with equal fervour.

* * *

Ignis slept, somewhere amidst the feverish caresses and long, pained silences. At times he would wake to find Gladiolus curled up beside him in peaceful slumber; others, his lover was awake, staring forlornly towards the open window as though he could see his future emblazoned across the star-filled sky.

When Ignis woke again, the first touches of grey were visible outside — by the cool, dim illumination he could see that the space in the bed beside him was empty.

Gladiolus padded silently across the floor toward the door; a knock must have come, loud enough that it had roused them both. With an ill sense of foreboding, Ignis sat up and pulled the covers to himself, wondering who could have come calling at such an ungodly hour.

It was Crowe’s voice that sounded out across the threshold as Gladiolus cracked open the door; her words were too hushed for Ignis to hear, but he could pick out the urgency in her tone. With a soft  _ ‘Thank you,’ _ Gladiolus stepped away and closed the door.

‘Father’s home,’ he whispered, turning toward Ignis. ‘His carriage just arrived. You should get back to your room.’

The chill dread was a persistent rot within Ignis’s stomach now; as quickly as he could, he gathered up his garments and dressed. As if Gladiolus didn’t sense the urgency in the moment, he seemed content to distract Ignis from his task with wandering hands and fingers, and tempting though it was to crawl back into bed and ignore reality, Ignis knew it wasn’t to be.

He pulled on just enough clothing to make himself decent, then turned to face Gladiolus and stretched up to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

‘I’ll not have a chance to say goodbye before you go,’ Ignis said. ‘This will have to do.’

Gladiolus seemed reluctant to relinquish his hold on Ignis’s hand as he turned for the door; he trailed along behind and out into the hall, and when Ignis thought he might finally let him go Gladiolus merely pulled him closer and swept him into his arms with a kiss that left Ignis quite breathless.

Gladiolus’s eyes glinted mischievously when he finally pulled away, allowing Ignis to catch his breath once more.

_ ‘That _ was a goodbye,’ he chided.

A goodbye it may have been, though they each seemed loath to part. Ignis pressed his head to his lover’s shoulder and Gladiolus held him in turn, strong arms enveloping him as though he might never let go.

As they pulled apart finally, it felt as though Ignis were tearing his very heart from the cavity of his chest. He held Gladiolus’s hand as long as he dared, their arms bridging the distance between them with each step, only for Gladiolus’s grasp to slip finally from his own.

He dared not look back as he padded silently down the hall, lest he lose all his resolve and rush back into Gladiolus’s arms. This was the time for discipline, for strength of will. The time for letting go.

He knew, without looking, that Gladiolus still stood watching him as he turned for the staircase. He lingered as he stood around the corner, pressing his forehead against the wall; it took everything not to turn back for just one more goodbye.

‘Master Scientia.’

Ice water dripped through Ignis’s veins. It was a voice he had not heard in days; a voice whose commanding tone wasn’t easily forgotten.

When he turned, Mr. Amicitia stood at the top of the staircase from the ground floor. He had the sort of stark alertness of a man who hasn’t slept and yet struggles to stay awake.

The man’s eyes went to Ignis’s arm, where the rest of his clothing was tucked beneath the crook of it — Ignis realised with a rush of discomfort that he hadn’t quite fully buttoned his shirt in his haste to leave.

‘M- Mr. Amicitia,’ Ignis stammered. He felt, beneath the man’s penetrating blue gaze, that all his innermost secrets were laid bare. ‘I hope you had a safe journey.’

The lord of the manor met the platitude with a silence as stony as his glare; silently, Ignis ducked his head and hurried for the stairs, following them to the safety of the top storey where his room awaited.

* * *

Iris had been bawling for the better part of the morning; her great, hiccoughing sobs had died down to more dignified sniffles by now, at least, although as she stood kicking glumly at the dirt beneath her shoes, Ignis was certain more tears would soon threaten to fall.

Crowe, Ms. Elshett, all the others — they each embraced Gladiolus as they might their own kith and kin, and to Ignis it seemed they truly were one and the same. It hadn’t slipped Ignis’s attention that Mr. Amicitia himself had failed to make an appearance; hopefully the enthusiasm of the others made up for his absence.

When it came Ignis’s turn to say goodbye, he contented himself with shaking his lover’s hand for the benefit of their audience. The look in Gladiolus’s eyes conveyed all that needed to be said; in turn, Ignis held his hand as long as he dared. 

All too soon Gladiolus’s grasp was gone; he turned to Iris and let her rush into his arms, and as he hugged her tightly Ignis stepped back into line with the others, watching in silence as the siblings said their goodbyes.

Witnessing Iris’s display was enough to have Ms. Elshett near tears, and Ignis feared he wasn’t far behind her.

‘Don’t forget to write,’ Crowe demanded, as Gladiolus helped his driver heft the last of his luggage into the carriage. ‘And tell us all about the pretty places you’ll see along the way!’

Ignis stood watching long after the carriage had departed the drive; long after the others had returned to the coolness of the house. He was absently staring out over the gardens when Crowe came for him with a gentle hand on his elbow.

‘Ignis.’

Ignis knew what she was going to say before she ever parted her lips; the heavy warmth of the morning seemed to take on a chill as he glanced toward the house.

‘It’s Mr. Amicitia,’ she said soberly. ‘You’re wanted in his study.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end now :O
> 
> Check out [this beautiful moodboard](https://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com/post/172797530657/swordliliesandebony-gardenia-hall-by) made for Gardenia Hall by the wonderful [swordliliesandebony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony)!

A draught swept across the floorboards, biting at Ignis’s ankles. Reflexively, he twisted in his seat toward the radiator even though its surface hadn’t given off heat in hours.

With a dreary sigh, he turned the page of the composition book he was checking and tapped the end of his pencil idly against the margin. It was careless work — littered with needless errors. He had to wonder if the child had been paying attention in lessons _at all._

He had three more exercises to mark after this one: boring, thankless work. He thought longingly of the cup of milk he’d heat for himself later, of the warmth that would leach through his fingers as he wrapped them around the porcelain.

‘Mr. Scientia?’

He hadn’t heard the knock at the door; perhaps there hadn’t been one. When he glanced up, another of the teachers, Ms. Yeager, stood in the doorway.

‘This came for you in the afternoon post,’ she said.

When she stepped forward, she extended a hand with an envelope in her grasp. It was unusual for him to receive correspondence at work — and it was addressed to him personally, not his posting. He eyed it curiously before taking it from her hand.

‘Thank you, Ms. Yeager.’

He didn’t need to ask her to shut the door after her; she left as quietly as she’d appeared.

He couldn’t quite describe the feeling of trepidation as he glanced the envelope over; it only worsened as he saw the return address printed in neat hand, listing an address at Gardenia Hall.

The past four and a half years seemed to yawn out behind him, as though he had last left the manor by carriage a lifetime ago. Perhaps it had been that long; he’d had a spell of good fortune in that time, only to lose it all due to a spate of illness that left him destitute. The last time he’d heard from Gardenia Hall had been from Iris, inviting him to a dinner party they’d thrown at the manor. He’d appreciated the gesture, but politely declined nonetheless.

_Mr. Scientia,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. My last correspondence to your residence at Via Sacra was returned ‘unknown at address’; after I enquired with your former employer, he informed me that I might be able to reach you at your new posting._

_Miss Iris is a marvelous young lady, as I’m sure you’d be proud to hear. She would like me to ask after you and tell you she misses your lessons very much._

_I will be frank, Mr. Scientia. Our previous governess unfortunately passed away on account of her advanced age. I understand you have your own livelihood to attend to, however Iris speaks so fondly of the days you spent at Gardenia Hall. I hoped that I might be able to impose upon you to offer you your old posting back — with wages to be renegotiated, of course._

_I know you didn’t part ways with Gardenia Hall on the best of terms, but I hope that we might all be able to put that behind us, for Miss Iris’s sake. She really was very fond of you, you know._

_I remain your faithful servant,_

_M. Elshett_

Ignis removed his spectacles and set them aside, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was rather an unexpected turn of events — after the entirely undignified manner he’d been terminated from his posting at Gardenia Hall, he hadn’t expected to hear from Mr. Amicitia or Ms. Elshett again.

He had a job here: a life. Teaching hardly paid as much as his previous work keeping books for a local barrister, but it was an honest job, and one he excelled at.

More than that — he didn’t know if he could face the thought of returning to Gardenia Hall after all these years. After everything.

He set the letter aside for the time being, with every intention of returning to his work.

It wasn’t long before he was glancing at it again, at Ms. Elshett’s neat, no-nonsense print. He’d have to refuse her offer, of course. It was the only logical option, particularly when the school here had been so kind and accommodating to him after his illness. Yes, he’d send her a letter thanking her for the opportunity, but he simply could not accept.

Yet even as he turned his eye once more to his pupils’ exercises, internally wincing at the errors that Iris never would have made, he couldn’t put the letter from his mind. Perhaps he’d be wise to consider the proposal, even just for a day or two.

* * *

Time, it seemed, had not rendered the ride across the countryside any less traumatic. It was beyond Ignis how anyone could hope to travel by way of these winding, jagged roads on a recurring basis.

The first time he’d made this journey, he had been a timid young man, apprehensive of the future ahead of him. His stomach roiled with uncertainty now, almost five years later, but he was able to affect some sense of confidence as he drew closer to his destination.

He was a man now — not some gawky boy on the cusp of adulthood. He could stand up for himself if it came to it; they wouldn’t have asked him back to his posting if he weren’t bloody well worth it.

As the carriage finally, miraculously drew to a halt, he took a deep breath and readied himself. It was evening now, and late into the year; through the window he could see the manor grounds dusted in frost, lit up by the moon.

Crowe did not greet him as he emerged — it was a young man that he did not recognise, a few years older than Iris would be and with a head of hair as bright as the late summer wheat. The fellow bobbed his head politely as he took Ignis’s things and bundled them into the entrance hall.

On the face of it, so little had changed: the same wallpaper, the same hardwood floor, the same paintings on the wall. Yet there was so much in the soul of the place, the coldness of the halls, that made it feel a world apart from the manor he’d left behind.

‘Ignis!’

He had only the warning of a pair of shoes thundering across the floor before he was almost bowled over. He registered Crowe in all her unforgettable nature, even as her arms threatened to strangle the life from him.

‘The sir is away for the night with Miss Iris,’ Crowe said as she finally released him from her hold. ‘We’ll bring your things to your room and you can settle in. It’s your same old room, just as you left it.’

Ignis very much doubted that the room was _just_ as he’d left it; it had served at least one more soul in the time since his departure, and although he reasoned that it had never been _his_ room to begin with, it was going to be difficult not to imagine a stranger lying in the bed where he’d spent so many months.

Still, he followed along behind Crowe, the young man running ahead with his bags. He seemed a quiet soul, but he was chipper enough to chatter under his breath with Crowe, even prompting a laugh from her.

Ignis had trouble sleeping that night — whether because of the travelling, or the new lodgings which were yet so familiar to him. When he finally resigned himself to the futility of attempting to rest, he slipped from his bed and moved to the desk where he’d already managed to lay a few of his things out.

There were his books, of course, which he could scarcely live without; he picked up his favourite novel and flipped to the middle of it, slipping from the crease between the pages a folded sheet of paper.

By the light of the moon, he reverently opened the paper, careful not to dislodge its contents. Within was a gardenia, pressed and preserved perfectly even after all these years.

* * *

He felt a ghost of his younger self as he roused himself the next morning and bathed from the water left outside the room for him. This was a routine he had carried out so many times years earlier; his limbs went through the motions mechanically, lifting the bowl of water to its usual spot and finding washcloths where he knew they would be.

He ate in the kitchens that morning, with Crowe and the young man. Prompto, he was called — ‘a stray blown in from Insomnia, like you,’ as Crowe said.

Pleased as Ignis was to reacquaint himself with everyone at the manor, he couldn’t help his apprehension as he awaited Mr. Amicitia’s return. The sooner he could get their meeting over with, the better. Perhaps he might never have to cross paths with the lord of the manor again after today, if he were fortunate.

He was stretching his legs on the manor grounds when he heard the trundling sound of carriage wheels; with a lurch, he glanced toward the rear of the house and wondered if he should head inside now, or give Mr. Amicitia time to recover from his travels.

Ms. Elshett saved him the trouble — she emerged some ten minutes later, ushering him hurriedly over.

‘I’m glad to see you well,’ she said brightly. ‘Miss Iris positively refuses to wash up after her travels until she sees you first.’

It was no little girl who greeted him in the entrance hall; it was rather a young woman, her dark hair glossy and longer than he recalled, and she was almost a foot taller to boot.

She waved a hand delicately at him at first, and for a moment there was a sort of awkward distance between them that pained Ignis more than he could have explained. After a long pause, however, Iris crossed the floor and stretched up toward him, wrapping her arms around him.

‘I missed you, Iggy,’ she murmured.

Her cheeks were flushed as he pulled away, and for a fleeting instant he could picture a little girl in her place, the stubborn, strong-willed madam who’d never taken no for an answer.

‘Miss Iris.’

Ms. Elshett stood waiting, the sort of stern look on her face that Ignis had seen countless times years before. She beckoned hurriedly to Iris, who only protested for a few moments before allowing herself to be guided upstairs.

It was just Ignis and the housekeeper now. With an anxious glance toward the door of the study where it was firmly closed, he turned to Ms. Elshett.

‘He’ll need to wash up and eat,’ she said. ‘You can continue your walk if you like, and I’ll send someone for you when he’s ready.’

Swallowing, Ignis shook his head.

‘I’ll wait in my room,’ he replied. ‘It’s taken a turn for the chilly this morning.’

Ostensibly, he spent the time packing the rest of his things away — the reality of it was that he kept returning to the book on his desk and riffling it open to the middle page, as if to check that the flower were still there.

He had Gladiolus’s letters — all of them, tied together with string in the bottom of his trunk. For the first few months the correspondence had been a regular occurrence, but then the stretches between replies had grown longer and longer until Gladiolus’s letters had stopped coming altogether.

It had been difficult not to take it to heart: to imagine that Gladiolus had grown bored of him, or found someone new. For a time he had feared that his former paramour had fallen in battle, but a frantic letter to Iris had earned him a response to the contrary.

He wondered, sometimes, why he still kept the letters — why he still held onto the pressed petals of the gardenia as though it were the most precious thing he owned. Four and a half years had passed in the interim, and he’d grown and changed, yet there was still a stubborn part of him that clung to those days they had spent together.

A knock came at the door, and he took the time to carefully replace the flower before moving to answer it. Prompto stood waiting outside, his freckled cheeks dusted with dirt.

‘He’s ready for you,’ he said. ‘The sir, that is.’

Prompto led him downstairs as though he didn’t already know his way; as though these halls, dark and neglected now, hadn’t been his home once upon a time. At the door to the study, Prompto left Ignis with a reassuring nod and scurried away to some other task in the house.

All that was left was to go in.

He rapped his knuckles against the doorframe; a gruff voice greeted him. Slowly, he moved his fingers to the handle and twisted it open, popping his head around the door.

It was dark within; the drapes were drawn, a single slant of light beaming through the cracks in them where they hung heavily across one of the windows. He’d been in this room only a handful of times years before, and he’d been happy enough to avoid return visits wherever possible. Being in here once more only filled him with unease.

‘Mr. Amicitia,’ he said. ‘I wanted to thank you for giving me the opportunity to—’

He’d practiced this speech — readied it before he’d ever sent his reply to Ms. Elshett’s offer. He had known it would be an inevitability, albeit an unpleasant one, and he’d prepared for it as best he could.

Yet now, as Ignis took a halting step into the room, the words fell away like dust.

The figure at the desk was tall and imposing, much as he had expected, yet the hair was dark and thick, not yet shot with grey. The shoulders were broad from years of labour; the skin, visible where the sleeves were rolled up, was tanned a golden brown.

It was not Clarus Amicitia who sat before him; not cold, steely blue eyes which glanced up at him. In the shaft of sunlight that beamed through the window and across the man’s shoulder, Ignis could see the glint of eyes that were a warm, welcoming amber.

All at once it was as though the years had melted away; as though he were the bumbling young man, once more in awe of his lover.

As he took another step forward, Gladiolus rose to his feet. He was taller now, if that were even possible. His hands rested at the edge of the desk, clutching onto it as though for balance.

‘Ignis,’ he said.

His voice was deeper now, husky and rough yet undeniably familiar. The sound of it sent a surge of want through Ignis, and it was all he could do not to round the desk and throw his arms around the other man.

‘Gladiolus,’ he said, barely choking out the name as his voice caught within his throat.

It was like seeing a ghost — a ghost made entirely corporeal as it stepped around the desk and paced towards him. Closer now, Ignis could see that Gladiolus had filled out, his jaw and neck broadening. A scar marred his face, running down over his left eye.

‘I didn’t—’ Ignis stammered. ‘I wasn’t—’

‘I’m sorry for the pretense,’ Gladiolus said. He folded his arms across his chest; the veins and muscles stood out in his flesh. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come if you knew I was askin’. Figured you wouldn’t say no to Iris.’

Ignis felt a lump rise up in his throat and summarily swallowed it.

It had been years since Gladiolus’s last letter. His final correspondence had given no indication that he meant to go silent; he had merely failed to respond to Ignis’s next letter, and the next, and the next.

Shock had rattled Ignis when he had first seen his former lover, yet it was anger now that boiled his blood and set him balling his hands into fists at his sides.

‘You _weren’t sure I’d come?’_ he ground out, levelling his gaze upon the other man. ‘So you simply neglected to inform me if you had survived? Allowed me to believe you’d been captured, or killed, or worse?’

He watched Gladiolus’s jaw clench; saw the restraint that it must have taken not to blurt out a fiery response, as had been their custom years earlier.

Fine. If Gladiolus had nothing to say, so be it. It was Ignis’s turn to speak.

‘I had to find out from your sister that you were still alive,’ he snapped. ‘She was rather bemused as she told me that you’d been sending her letters fortnightly. I don’t suppose you thought it might be polite to let me know that we’d reached the end of our correspondence?’

He was shaking now, and he feared that as he’d started there’d be no going back. Gladiolus, for his part, seemed content to stand there and be berated in silence.

‘Did you find someone else?’ Ignis demanded. ‘Did you grow bored of our childish little romance? I would have let you go if you’d asked me to, you know. Instead you left me hanging on like some lovesick fool, waiting miserably for your next letter.’

In all of this, Gladiolus had the gall — the utter _gall_ — not to meet his eye. Instead the man stood with his glance turned toward the floor, like some child being chastised for wrongdoing. It only made the rage flare up all the more in Ignis; only made it more impossible to calm down.

‘You’re selfish, Gladiolus,’ he said, well aware that he was raising his voice. ‘You’ve always been a stupid, stuck-up, entitled little brat. Everyone exists just to serve you, just to please you until you’ve had your fill of them — and then you’re more than happy to discard them without a w—’

‘Ignis.’

Gladiolus’s voice was low, almost inaudible above the tirade, yet it stopped Ignis in his tracks. He waited, chest heaving, for Gladiolus to say something — _anything_ — that would make up for the past four years.

‘There’s nothing I could possibly do to put this right,’ Gladiolus said. He finally lifted his eyes to meet Ignis’s; they were dark with penitence. ‘All I can do is offer you my sincerest, most heartfelt apology. Your letters gave me so much hope out there, and every day I prayed for their arrival. They were what kept me going.’

He cleared his throat, glancing away. His voice was getting thick now.

‘I hoped that you might be able to wait for me,’ he said. ‘Most of the soldiers get out after six years, and I decided I could be patient. But I knew you couldn’t — knew you shouldn’t have to.

‘You’d just got the job with the barrister. You sounded so happy, so — so damned hopeful about the future. And I realised that any future you could have, you’d have to put on hold for six damned years and wait for me to come back.’

The pieces were coming together, steadily; Ignis could see Gladiolus grappling to find the right words, but there was no need. He understood now — understood Gladiolus’s stupid, twisted logic.

‘So you let me go,’ Ignis said quietly. ‘Let me move on with my life without you.’

Silently, Gladiolus nodded. Ignis had never seen a grown man of such large stature look so cowed.

‘It was the only way,’ Gladiolus said. ‘If I loved you, I had to let you go.’

This was a worse pain than Ignis thought he’d ever felt in all his life: the pain of all the doubt and uncertainty, of believing he’d been used and discarded, of believing he’d meant nothing to the man he’d fallen in love with.

If only it had all gone different; if only he’d known.

He turned and breezed for the door, his hand shaking as it went for the handle. He wanted to run — to break into the gardens and take off at a sprint and never look back. Yet there was another compulsion that urged him to turn the other way, to run into Gladiolus’s arms.

He obeyed neither desire.

‘You idiot,’ he said, glancing back at Gladiolus. ‘You utter, oblivious fool.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	13. Chapter 13

Ms. Elshett had seen to it that there was a fire lit in each of the grates at Gardenia Hall, whether the room was occupied or not.

‘For too long the manor went to ruin after the sir passed,’ she said. ‘It’s time we brought some warmth back into this place.’

Ignis warmed his hands by one such fire, delighting in the roar of the flames in front of him where he sat in the drawing room. Iris was to join him soon for afternoon tea; now that she was older, her lesson plan wasn’t quite as strict as it had been, and she spent much of her time in independent study.

When she arrived, she had rosy cheeks from being out in the cold, and she was only too quick to scurry toward the warmth of the fire.

‘I just got back from the greenhouse,’ she said. ‘I’ve been slowly trying to convince Gladdy to take up tending the flowers again, but it’s not going very well.’

‘How long has he been home?’ Ignis asked, carefully pouring tea into a cup for her.

Iris paused to think for a moment before moving to her seat. When she flopped into the chair, Ignis could smell the cold on her clothes.

‘Must be almost a year now?’ she said. ‘After Father passed it was just the staff and me, but Mrs. Hereford kept me company until Gladdy was discharged. When she passed away, it was like losing family.’

Ignis tapped the brim of his teacup thoughtfully. A year Gladiolus had been home, and he’d had no idea at all. Truthfully, while he hadn’t forgotten about their trysts, he’d told himself often enough that he’d put it all behind him that he almost believed it. There were still days when something — a flower in a window, a head of dark hair — would bring it all back to him.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your father,’ Ignis murmured. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t aware of his passing.’

Iris’s shoulders rose and fell. It brought to mind a crystal-clear memory of her making much the same gesture years earlier, and she still cocked her head slightly to the side as she did so.

‘He wasn’t well,’ she said. ‘We knew it was coming.’

Ignis turned his glance to the dancing of the fire in the grate once more as he thought of the former lord of the manor and his brisk ways — of how he’d always had time for his daughter no matter the occasion.

‘I know you were very fond of him,’ Ignis said.

At his side, Iris gave a sigh. He felt her hand rest on his forearm, and the contact was enough to have him glancing up at her curiously.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘For everything that happened. He was a very… stubborn man. Very set in his ways. We all tried to convince him to let you stay, but changing his mind was like asking a chocobo to change its feathers.’

If Ignis’s heart weren’t so heavy, he might have laughed. He might not have come to know Mr. Amicitia as intimately as some of the manor’s other residents, but it certainly sounded like an accurate summation of his personality.

‘Do you think it’ll ever be the same?’ Iris asked. ‘Between you and Gladdy?’

There was a candour about her; a hopefulness in her eyes. Ignis wished dearly to give her the answer she was looking for, but he didn’t rightly believe that he could.

‘I don’t know,’ he said with a sigh.

He removed his spectacles and cleaned the lenses with a corner of his sleeve; when he looked up she was still watching him expectantly.

‘It’s been four years, Iris,’ he said. ‘We’re different people now.’

It was a truer statement than she could ever know. She didn’t know of his illness, of how sure he’d been he wouldn’t last the winter. She didn’t know he had almost given up.

‘He really did think it was for the best,’ she said. She grasped his hand in hers, and there was a strange sort of fervour to her as she spoke. ‘I tried to tell him that you’d wait, that he was worth waiting for, but…’

Ignis shook his head. Gently, he pulled his hand from hers and turned away, toward the fire.

How could she ever hope to understand? She was still a girl — it would be years yet before she had her heart broken like he had.

‘How is the kitten?’ he asked, by way of changing the subject.

He was rather pleased that he succeeded in keeping his voice level, even though his throat had become so tight.

At this, at least, Iris split into a grin. It was reassuring to know that the feline still succeeded in cheering her up, even in her most dour moods.

‘He’s gotten big,’ she said. ‘Father wouldn’t let him in the house any more, but Gladdy doesn’t care as long as he keeps the rats away. He’s probably asleep with the chocobos now, sheltering from the cold.’

‘You still breed chocobos here?’ Ignis remarked. ‘I thought that was always your father’s passion.’

Iris nodded.

‘It was,’ she said. ‘Gladdy didn’t take to it quite as well, but our stable hand was sent from above. We only have a handful at a time, now, but they still bring in quite a bit of coin.’

They whiled away the next hour or so catching up, and for a time it was as though nothing had changed — yet there were moments when Iris would ask about his old job keeping books, or bring up her old governess, that a distance would seem to stretch out between them. She was almost a woman now, with her own desires and compulsions. He would have to get to know her all over again.

When they parted ways, Iris gave him a warm hug. For just a moment it felt as though they might have a chance to return to how things used to be.

‘Will I see you at supper?’ she asked.

Ignis nodded.

‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.’

* * *

While botany was still very much outside of Ignis’s sphere of interest, he knew a little more now by way of things he’d picked up over the years. Gardenias, for example, favoured warmer climes — and without careful, diligent tending in the colder months, they were liable to perish.

It was readily apparent even on a cursory glance that in spite of Iris’s best efforts at upkeep, the gardens had fallen into disrepair. Without Gladiolus to tend to it all, the grounds were a pale echo of their former splendour.

The first step would be convincing Gladiolus to rekindle his green thumb — or at the very least hire someone to keep the gardens in his stead.

Ignis was pleased to find the greenhouse occupied when he ventured outdoors, his woollen cloak wrapped about himself to guard against the cold. It was only mid-morning but the skies were tumultuous and grey, plunging the manor into unnatural darkness; as he neared the greenhouse he could see a light flickering away merrily within and was transported back to a time years earlier, when he had first stumbled upon Gladiolus within.

He found Gladiolus at the rear of the structure, as he had thought he might, although the man wasn’t hard at work tending to his flowers. Rather he paced the breadth of the space, admiring the plants as he went.

It seemed a shame to interrupt him when he seemed so lost in thought. Any thoughts Ignis might have entertained of leaving without a word were soon put to rest, however, as his shoe scuffed against a terracotta pot lying on its side on the floor. Gladiolus glanced up where he stood, his expression one of a man startled half out of his wits.

Ignis had heard of this: of soldiers returning from war with a fear deep in their bones, a certain twitchiness that never quite left them.

Soon, the moment had passed.

‘I’m surprised to find you in here,’ Ignis said thoughtfully.

Gladiolus shrugged, and for the first time Ignis took a moment to truly study the ways in which he’d changed in his time away.

His shoulders, to begin with, had broadened out immeasurably; Ignis could imagine that being held by him would be like the embrace of Titan himself. His jaw was less angular now, although the ill-kept facial hair disguised the shape of it somewhat. Ignis tried not to get too lost on Gladiolus’s lips, which had laid so many stolen kisses upon his own.

‘Iris’s been trying to get me back in here,’ Gladiolus said flatly. ‘Said it’ll  _ help me adjust.’ _

Silently, Ignis felt that he agreed — but he felt that to voice such a thing might shatter whatever illusions Gladiolus had crafting for himself that he’d adjusted perfectly already. Instead, he strode up the length of the greenhouse and slipped his cloak from his shoulders, draping it over his arm.

‘You could have told me you were home,’ he said. ‘I would have been pleased to know you were all right.’

Where Gladiolus stood, he turned his back to Ignis and his shoulders shifted as he sighed. Ignis watched him move to one of the planters whereupon he gently cupped a vibrant orange lily in his hand and stood in silence until Ignis was quite sure the other man had forgotten he was there.

The urge to step forward, to place a hand upon Gladiolus’s shoulder, was almost overwhelming. Their affair had spanned barely two weeks, and more than four years had passed since; yet being so close to him seemed to bring the memories rushing back, and it felt like torture to know that things would never be the same.

‘I can see you’re otherwise occupied,’ he said crisply. As he swept his cloak over his shoulders once more, he couldn’t ignore the slight tremble of his hands. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

His footsteps were brisk as he crossed the greenhouse for the door. He resolved that he would not turn back even if Gladiolus should call out for him to stop, yet it proved unnecessary — Gladiolus let him slip away without uttering so much as a word.

* * *

A mist picked up across the manor grounds in the following days; when Ignis glanced out of his window, he could see little between the dim grey light of the day, and the whirling spray of raindrops speckling the windowpane. 

He tried to read; he tried to prepare lessons for Iris. His every attempt was punctuated by the urge to stare toward the window.

He was relieved from his compulsion as a knock came at the door. He startled at the sound, and it took him a moment to quite gather himself enough to move to answer. Crowe stood outside, her cheeks tinged pink and chest heaving with exertion. At first he was concerned — something must have happened to have her in such an unkempt state — but when he met her eye she was smiling.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you in your quiet time,’ she panted out, all but vibrating with excitement. ‘Only I couldn’t wait to tell you.’

She had something clutched in her grasp; she thrust her hands out and Ignis could see she held a letter, which she clearly meant for him to read.

His brow was furrowed with uncertainty as he took it from her and glanced it over. As he pored over the contents, he felt his mouth hang open with surprise. It appeared to be correspondence from some suitor — some well-read fellow, if his prose were any indication — asking Crowe to wed him.

‘I’m so happy I could die,’ Crowe blurted.

Ignis moved to hand the letter back, but she threw him off by suddenly flinging her arms around him in a tight embrace. It was difficult not to let her enthusiasm rub off on him and he found himself smiling in spite of his dour mood.

‘I’m elated for you, Crowe,’ he said, as they parted. ‘Truly.’

‘I just had to tell you,’ she said, finally taking the letter back once more. ‘I need to tell  _ everyone.’ _

She was gone as quickly as she came, her footsteps thundering down the hall as she rushed for the stairs.

With that, it felt entirely fruitless to attempt to return his attention to his prior tasks. He moved, as if by the compulsion of his own limbs, for the window; as he stood there he rested his hands on the sill and looked out into the grey, miserable expanse of the gardens.

The light was on again in the greenhouse, and the sight of it gave him an odd sort of turn that made his stomach squirm.

He knew, all at once, that he couldn’t go on like this. To try to rekindle his relationship with Gladiolus would be an exercise in futility; at any rate, the man was the lord of the manor now, having taken on all of his late father’s responsibilities. They simply  _ wouldn’t _ —  _ couldn’t _ — return to how things had been. Gladiolus was  _ the sir _ now, and Ignis was merely a man in his employ.

Still, he couldn’t help that his glance lingered on the distorted silhouette of the greenhouse with the little light glowing within.

His only hope was avoiding the temptation to cross Gladiolus’s path. From what he’d heard, he didn’t imagine it would be a difficult feat; Gladiolus had become somewhat reclusive in his return to the manor. If Ignis didn’t choose to seek him out, perhaps they could go without seeing each other entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! The end!
> 
> I realise I could probably have split this into two chapters, but I wanted to keep the epilogue together with chapter 14 so I wouldn't leave you all hanging for another week.
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you so much to everybody who has commented, left kudos, and generally been wonderful and supportive along the way. I'm still trying to find my wings again with writing, but this story has been such a joy to write in the meantime, and it has brought me so much happiness to be able to share it with you all.

Crowe’s exuberance seemed to spill into the lives of the other occupants of the manor; even as the weather grew colder still, and the nights lengthened with the turning of the seasons, it seemed that everyone was abuzz with excitement for her impending nuptials.

It was a solstice ceremony — a beautiful, candid affair, which Gladiolus graciously invited them to host on the grounds. By some miracle the weather was crisp and dry, perfect for a winter wedding, and as they were joined in the eyes of the Astrals before a crowd of friends and family, a gentle flurry of snow began to fall.

It had been magical; like something from a novel. The magnificence of it all helped buoy everyone in the manor even after Crowe departed for her new life of wedded bliss, although for days after it wasn’t uncommon to see teary eyes from the staff or Iris.

Ignis was happy for Crowe, certainly, but her absence at the manor was sorely felt by all.

In time, a new maid was hired: a timid, quiet girl who couldn’t have been more different from Crowe had she consciously tried. She spend much of her time keeping to herself, and if she chanced to run into Ignis or Iris or even Gladiolus himself, she was quick to avert her glance with polite words of apology for intruding upon them.

Prompto, at least, was somewhat equipped to fill the void left by Crowe’s departure. He was a cheerful young man, often overly candid, and there was seldom a day when Ms. Elshett’s furious tones didn’t ring through the hall calling his name in chastisement for neglecting his duties in his eagerness.

Months passed; the sting of Crowe’s last farewell began to fade. The new girl, Tilly, slowly came to find her place in the rhythm of the manor and it seemed that Gardenia Hall returned to something of a state of normalcy.

Gladiolus, too, seemed to warm with the changing of the seasons — as the sun began to melt the last frost, he slowly started to venture from the confines of the study more and more.

It was on one such morning, well into spring, that Ignis chanced to spy Gladiolus tending to the gardenias on the grounds. It was a sight that arrested him with such force that he could only watch from the window; for a moment it was as though he were witnessing a scene from years earlier, and the strength of the reverie into which he plunged left him quite breathless.

Perhaps a spectre guided him, carrying his legs away from the window and out of his room, treading lightly along the hallway — a spectre that led him placidly into the gardens, where he took a great breath of fresh spring air and revelled in the scent of flowers and cut grass. It was certainly not by chance that his wandering brought him to Gladiolus’s side, though he was content to indulge the illusion for the sake of his own dignity.

‘The gardens are beginning to shape up,’ he mused aloud. ‘It’s wonderful to see Gardenia Hall in its former glory once more.’

The sound of his voice had stirred Gladiolus from his work, and the man carefully set his pruning tools aside and dusted his hands off on dirt-caked trousers, squinting into the sun behind Ignis as he met his eye.

‘You can thank Iris,’ Gladiolus replied. ‘Might never have left that study if she hadn’t practically dragged me out of it.’

Ignis moved to the shrub at which Gladiolus was crouching and lowered a hand to delicately touch one of the blooms. Sure enough, it seemed to be reviving under Gladiolus’s dutiful care.

He couldn’t help but smile as his thoughts turned to the pressed petals of the gardenia in his room upstairs, fondly kept after all this time. Gladiolus’s love of flowers had been the first sign, the first inkling Ignis had been given, that the young heir to the manor was more than a man of strength and deficient intellect. While he knew now, from their months of correspondence, that there was far more to Gladiolus than on first inspection, Ignis was pleased that the man had returned to his old passion. It seemed to lend a levity to his soul that had been so absent since his return from war.

‘When I gave you that flower,’ Gladiolus said, his soft voice sending Ignis’s thoughts scattering like dust into the breeze, ‘I was scared I’d been too forward. We got so swept up in each other over those two weeks that I felt like I wasn’t in my right mind. Like I’d been possessed.’

Ignis, still staring down at the petals where the breeze brushed them against his fingertips, was silent. It had certainly felt like possession; like his wits had taken leave of him entirely, leaving behind only some base, primal desire. He’d been in equal parts mesmerised and terrified by the intensity of it all.

‘I never stopped thinking of you,’ Gladiolus said. ‘If I could change one thing, I never would have left.’

Beneath the confines of his waistcoat, setting the fabric of his shirt rustling with the vibrations, Ignis could feel his heart hammering. He never stopped thinking of Gladiolus either; each day apart from him had felt like a lifetime, and even as he’d tried sorely to move on, to dispel any lingering notions of their ever being compatible as a pair, he’d known Gladiolus would never truly leave his thoughts.

When he looked at Gladiolus there was something like hope in his glance, something that lit the amber of his eyes with a fire Ignis had not seen in all the time since his return to his manor. It made Ignis’s pulse quicken; made his heart sing.

* * *

The mild days between spring and summer were the most pleasant, Ignis surmised, as he strolled alongside Iris through the gardens. She had a parasol tucked neatly beneath her arm, though she had no need of it yet, and in her pristine cream dress with its many lace skirts, Ignis suspected he’d never seen quite such a radiant picture of girlhood in all his years.

Mrs. Hereford, Astrals rest her soul, had seemingly done a canny job of civilising the unruly child Iris had once been, although there were times when a comment would pass the girl’s lips that was so loaded with insinuation that he could merely gape at her as she returned his glance with a twinkle in her eye.

‘Here we are,’ Iris said with a flourish.

They had come to a halt by a bench, which afforded them a prime view of the gardens; once Iris had adjusted her skirts she sat carefully at one end of the bench and Ignis sat a polite distance away at the other.

Mild and pleasant, the day was perfect to sit and admire the hedgerows and gardenias, and spy the solitary dragonfly that hovered idly overhead. Ignis took great joy in closing his eyes and sitting back, the better to bask in the sun; beside him, he heard Iris sigh in contentment.

A notion came to him, steadily, as he soaked in the warmth — an inkling of an idea. He opened his eyes and idly tapped his fingertips against his bottom lip as he surveyed the garden.

‘Something troubling you?’ Iris asked.

Ignis shook his head.

‘Not troubling,’ he said. ‘Merely a flight of fancy. Are you familiar with floriography?’

He wasn’t surprised in the least when she nodded. If Gladiolus was an enthusiast, it stood to reason that his sister — so eager to follow in his footsteps — would be, too.

‘Why do you ask?’ she said, narrowing her eyes with curiosity. ‘Care to divulge what this  _ flight of fancy _ entails?’

He was hesitant, and rightly so. He’d done his best to reclaim his life at Gardenia Hall over the months, to establish a familiarity with the family that had been lost to him for so long. This fancy of his — an overly romantic notion at best — was unlikely to cause anything but trouble.

Still, he rested his hands on his lap and turned toward Iris, imagining that he could trust in her discretion.

‘If one were searching for a flower,’ he said haltingly, ‘perhaps something to… convey a sort of tentative interest in one’s suitor, what would one choose?’

He watched one of her eyebrows arch in surprise. There was no use in being vague; she had clearly seen right through him.

‘There’s ivy,’ she said after a pause. ‘It signifies  _ affection. _ Or…’

She trailed off, seemingly lost in thought. When he turned to question her she merely rose to her feet, setting her parasol aside, and paced forward into the grass with little heed for the hem of her skirt.

He watched, bemused, as she stooped delicately and lowered her hand to the flowerbed along the hedgerow. With the utmost care, she plucked something between her fingers and returned to her seat. Within her grasp was a single daisy, delicate and unassuming.

‘The wild daisy can be used to mean you’ll consider your suitor’s affections,’ she said, lifting the flower for him to look, ‘but the garden daisy is a confirmation.  _ I share your sentiments.’ _

When she handed the daisy to Ignis, he took it thoughtfully and studied it. It still eluded him that so much candid meaning could be conveyed by a single blossom; that by confusing the particular breed of flower, a different message could be given entirely.

Gently, he enclosed the daisy within the palm of his hand and turned to Iris with a smile.

‘Thank you, Miss Iris,’ he said fondly. ‘It seems you have a great deal to teach me.’

* * *

Ignis sat on the veranda sipping tea brewed with cardamom. It had turned cool for the evening, a pleasant reprieve, and he delighted in the slight chill of the air as it crossed the nape of his neck.

While anyone passing him by might note the stillness of his demeanour, his mind was tumultuous, like the first rumblings of a storm.

He’d had plenty to mull over since his walk with Iris two days earlier — and where he prided himself on his decisiveness, it seemed cruel to him that his mind was so thoroughly split on this matter. He knew what his heart wanted, certainly, but his principles were another matter entirely.

There was, invariably, the bitter reminder of how things had transpired before his untimely expulsion from the manor. Clarus Amicitia may have passed, his influence fleeing with him, but there was still decorum to be considered.

He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the tread on the boards beside him; scarcely noticed as a broad figure settled into the chair nearby.

It was Gladiolus, of course; Ignis could smell the tang of dirt and sweat intermingled on his skin even before he glanced up. Ignis donned a faint smile by way of greeting, and he saw it returned timidly on Gladiolus’s lips.

‘Been thinking about what a horse’s ass I was when we first met,’ Gladiolus said. ‘I’m not sure that I ever really made it up to you.’

Ignis couldn’t help smirking wryly to himself as he looked away. They’d had more than their fair share of arguments in those days, yet they’d seemed to find a common ground before long.

‘I must claim my own share of the blame,’ Ignis remarked with a sigh. ‘Truthfully, I was threatened by you.’

At his side, Gladiolus snorted — and then the sound turned into a full-bellied laugh that had Ignis staring at him in surprise.

_ ‘You,’ _ Gladiolus blurted. ‘Threatened by  _ me?  _ Gods above.’

Ignis could feel the back of his neck prickling self-consciously. This sensation, unpleasant as it was, bore more than a little resemblance to the feeling that would come over him years earlier whenever Gladiolus had laughed at his expense.

The other man, however, did not mean it in mocking this time; he shook his head in bemusement and twisted in his chair, looking candidly into Ignis’s eyes.

‘You were from the city,’ Gladiolus said. ‘Educated and mannerly. You thought I was a servant that first day — I hope you haven’t forgotten.’

In spite of himself, Ignis let out a chuckle. It  _ had _ been a rather embarrassing turn of events — for  _ him. _ The truth of it was that he’d always felt Gladiolus thought himself better than the poor boy from Insomnia who’d had to turn to teaching to put food on the table.

‘Let’s take a walk,’ Ignis suggested suddenly, rising to his feet.

Gladiolus frowned.

‘Your tea,’ he said.

‘It’s long gone cold.’

They followed the winding paths of the gardens away from the house and, as if by reflex, out of view of its inquisitive inhabitants. They walked close enough for their shoulders to brush with every few steps, and the contact made Ignis shiver delicately in the chill of the evening air.

Together, they kept up their pace; unconsciously Ignis found himself steering their path toward a certain part of the garden, finding his way there by memory. If Gladiolus were aware of being led, he made no mention of it and merely strolled along in heavy silence at Ignis’s side.

They were here — by the bench where Ignis and Iris had sat two days earlier. The sun wouldn’t yet set for some time, but there was a pleasant sort of quality to the evening light which cast the woods in the distance in stark relief, and when Ignis glanced at Gladiolus he found the other man’s face bathed in the glow. It seemed to set his eyes alight, turning the amber to molten gold.

While Gladiolus took a seat, Ignis turned out toward the grass where he’d seen Iris pluck the daisy during their chat together. Discreetly, as though merely inspecting the flowers in bloom in their bed — for they  _ were _ beautiful, somehow thriving in spite of years of neglect — he lowered himself to his haunches. With a gentle touch he plucked one of the daisies and concealed it within his grasp before returning to the bench.

‘I still have it, you know,’ Ignis said, as he took his seat. ‘The flower you gave me.’

Gladiolus was silent, as though contemplating the weight of the words. When he finally elected to answer it was with a hushed ‘Yeah?’

Ignis nodded. Slowly, he parted his fingers just enough to glance down at the daisy within. He hesitated for only a beat before he opened his hand and extended it to Gladiolus with a soft smile.

‘You told me that if you could have done anything differently,’ Ignis said, ‘you never would have left. We can’t get the years back, but perhaps we can start afresh.’

Gladiolus seemed to consider the daisy where it lay in the palm of Ignis’s hand; he was so still that Ignis found himself rooted to the spot in apprehension.

Then, miraculously, Gladiolus reached out and took the flower between his fingertips with the gentlest of touches, holding it up to inspect it in the light. He wore a faint smile, a subtle one, and when he turned and met Ignis’s gaze it was as though it were for his benefit alone.

‘A garden daisy,’ Gladiolus mused.

‘Iris’s influence,’ Ignis said. ‘It seems she… knows quite a bit about the language of flowers, too.’

A flush flared up in his cheeks; he turned away, bashful, but soon came the brush of Gladiolus’s fingertips against his chin. Ignis was more than happy to let the other man’s delicate touch guide him until they were face to face, and even as heat pooled under Ignis’s skin he found himself lost in Gladiolus’s eyes, in the depth of his stare.

It seemed logical, really — the most natural of progressions — when Glaidolus leaned close. Ignis thought perhaps, as their lips met, that this felt different than it had five years ago: that Gladiolus himself was different now, right down to the brush of his lips.

Ignis didn’t have very long to wonder on it as all the familiar feelings surged back within him: the longing, the security, the heady lust. It was all too easy to sink into Gladiolus’s embrace as he swept an arm around him.

With a soft sigh against Gladiolus’s lips, Ignis decided that everything was as it should have been years ago. That perhaps, finally, all was right.

The seasons changed, as they always do; summer gave way to autumn in its splendorous reds and golds, which in turn conceded to the barren winter months. By the time the last frosts had melted once more, Gardenia Hall truly felt like home.

There were rumours wherever Ignis went, of course: whisperings and ducked heads and furtive glances.  _ That’s the tutor, _ they’d say.  _ From up Gardenia Hall way. I heard he and the lord of the manor are rather close, if you take my meaning. _

It was easy to dismiss such murmurs, easy to forget them entirely, when his life at the manor had become so positively wonderful. He was in the unique position to watch Iris bloom into a splendid young woman before his eyes, to see the gardens take colour as Gladiolus revived them with tender care. At times, it felt as though he too were coming into flower; as though he could walk tall among these people he considered family in every way short of blood.

With time, his bond with Iris blossomed, too. No longer was he merely the tutor, or the confidant: he was as much a brother to her as Gladiolus. As the years went by, he felt a fierce protectiveness fill him at the thought of her venturing out into the world someday, and when she first began to receive interest from suitors it was difficult to remind himself that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

Look after herself she most certainly did — it wasn’t long before word began to spread near and far that her heart was not to be given away so easily.

It was a good match that she eventually found herself in, at the tender age of nineteen: a duke from Insomnia, as young and free-spirited as she herself. Gladiolus had his reservations as to whether his late father would have approved of such a match.

‘Mother would have loved him,’ he added candidly, a twinkle in his eye.

When they were wed, Gladiolus surprised the young couple with a gift: the deed to Gardenia Hall, theirs to pass on through the generations.

Iris had refused at once, as Ignis had known she would. Had insisted that the manor should pass on to an Amicitia heir.

‘You  _ are _ an Amicitia, Iris,’ Gladiolus had said. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’

Gladiolus, for his part, seemed content to live out his days in relative solitude at the family cottage near the Vesperpool — Ignis was only too pleased when Gladiolus asked for his company in perpetuity.

Rights to the family’s businesses went to Iris’s husband — and to Iris herself, at Gladiolus’s stern insistence. It was an unprecedented endeavour, no less so when her darling husband was more than happy to oblige.

The years went by; Iris welcomed a baby girl, and a boy. Gladiolus and Ignis spent their days at the cottage, visiting the manor at frequent turns. It was a simple life, but a joyous one, as Gladiolus took up odd jobs at the nearby village, and Ignis taught lessons at the local schoolhouse. If anyone questioned the relationship of the two men living at the Amicitia cottage, they said nothing aloud.

The summers were bright and cheerful; the winters, by stark contrast, were brutally cold. Yet he and Gladiolus made it through together, and a time came when Ignis could scarcely remember the life that had come before.

* * *

The deck and chair creaked in unison beneath Gladiolus as he rocked in his seat, puffing absently on a pipe filled with sweet-smelling tobacco from Tenebrae. The war had ended some seventeen years earlier, his stint on the battlefield earlier still, yet even now he bore the scar running ragged down one side of his face, no less livid.

Ignis set his hands down on his love’s shoulders to halt the progress of his rocking; stooped to kiss the top of his head where his hair hung, thick and glossy, though shot with grey now.

‘It’s getting cold, my love,’ Ignis murmured. ‘You should come inside.’

Gladiolus shook his head, as Ignis had known he would; with a sigh he retreated indoors and slipped one of the blankets free of the sofa, bringing it outside to drape across Gladiolus’s lap.

‘Sit with me awhile,’ Gladiolus said, his words muffled by the pipe wedged between his teeth. ‘Just until the sun goes down.’

And of course, Ignis did. It was a rare day when either of them did not indulge the other’s whims — where there had been a time in which they’d marked their last hours together, the extent of the future where it spanned off together was merely an invitation to spend each and every waking moment of it making one another happy.

Ignis took his seat at the other corner of their little veranda, tugging his jacket closed across his chest. It wasn’t yet autumn but there was a chill in the air, and at the ripe, respectable age of forty-three, he concluded that he was no longer young and sprightly enough to take the cold in stride as he once had — certainly not after the cold snap of four years earlier had left him ill and frightfully weak, and he’d only pulled through with the help of the finest physician Amicitia money could buy.

‘Iris’s been pressing for us to come back to Gardenia Hall,’ Gladiolus said, in between puffs of his pipe. ‘Said it’s not right having a big manor house all to themselves when we’d take up so little room.’

Ignis leaned back in his chair and glanced up at the sky, watching the pale grey of the clouds swirl through the blue.

‘She has a point,’ he murmured. ‘But we both know you’ll never agree. You seem happiest here, where it’s quiet.’

He heard Gladiolus’s seat creak once more beneath his weight. When Ignis turned to meet his gaze, he mused at the little ways in which Gladiolus had matured to be like his late father. There were little things — the still brilliant shade of his eyes, the way his lips curled into a peaceful smile — that Ignis was sure came from his mother, instead.

‘What about you?’ Gladiolus asked, gesturing with the tip of the pipe towards him. ‘Where would you be happiest spending the rest of your days?’

Ignis mulled the question over, good and long. He turned away to look out onto the modest land they owned, which Gladiolus had filled to bursting with the flowers he’d prized so much in his adolescence at the manor. They were surrounded by the sweet scent of blooms both exotic and mundane, and intermingled with it all was the tantalising perfume of the gardenia.

He thought of all the times he’d watched his love at work in his own little sanctuary, fastidiously tending to the blooms. Since coming back from the war, Gladiolus had never been quite the same — but it was here in the solitude of the countryside, where they might go hours in comfortable silence without exchanging a single word, that Gladiolus seemed most at peace.

It was a simple question, really, with an even simpler answer.

Ignis rose to his feet, his knees cracking as he went. Slowly, he turned to Gladiolus and lowered himself to his haunches before him, setting the pipe aside before seeking out his lover’s hands.

They had not been married — never would be, for such was the way of the world — but the modest bands of gold on each of their ring fingers attested to another truth. Ignis brushed his fingertips now over the ring Gladiolus wore, feeling the slight nicks in the surface made by years of toil. He had done this often; he felt as though he knew every blemish as well as he did every inch of Gladiolus’s skin.

‘I’m happiest where you are, my love,’ he said with a smile. ‘As long as you’re by my side, I shall want for nothing at all.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the boys — men, now — finally get their happy ending!
> 
> This may be the conclusion to their story here, but I do dearly hope to be able to come back to my other fics soon. This definitely won't be the last time you hear from me.
> 
> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones)


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